
■f % . 

\ A 





' ' " ^ „„ 

^ c° .^1' °o 



♦ <\ A * A 

• I t • * . A? ^ *o„o v ^ 


* «? 

* A <* 

/ .-i^- % 

J v V^*>" 

, . <>„ <0^ ****'♦ ^ V f 

:®' >.,❖* .* J 

v^, -W¥> e 

* „V VI 





o ■ 

<S> * » « • 0 ^ C '°p. *■•'’*’ ^ 0 " 1 ^ * • » ° ’ 

** -VCfc*'. U # ;’A%iA\ V ,/ •****'• ^ '* 

^ \wvw : f ^ ., 

* . - - . . ^ ^ **, 


<*.* *o\~k* «G 



*& v . t / « 

^ ( >A< %r 





* r\ 

°* •«.’•’ f° 

’*°- «r -4? .’ 


> /jA /V.% ' r <#v /T < 41 


t ^ %* 



"o A ,‘l 

° ^ V 

• aV-V ‘ 

* <y 

** O' ^ *"••** ,0> "o ^T7i*' O V 

A* V c° °o s^anZ* % 


«, <b yf> 

* w ^ 
4 V 



4 O 

° ^ 

* tv> * 

* <i ^ O 

A v T ®“° 5 * 

aV ^V'-v X> 0 ^ -V s 




0 J 

/ J> V * 

<> <0^ \D * 

i < I ^ rv > o N o **r\ 

• * %r 0° •'U^tvl' o 

«■ d» • 



’»/>«. 



• « 


o • A 


* <• G vP 

* o ^ ^ 



,° . ^ ' * 

r o 




* 



«» < i 

• o V 


* 0 • 1 ' • ♦ 

* +AQ « o' 


. 




0 





Or o • " ° ■* ^O 


4\ ♦ . 


° ' 

0 A V O 4 - 





& % % 

* • • * * A ^ * 

0 " ° ♦ <3 

' •’ vr *'*mk % 

«* -£m>s -k a 




- c£ *Cn J 

w * a v ti» -► 

^ '••** ^ ■ 



> ** v % •$ 



*v<* * 

V V ° 




° -o5 ^ 

* «> o 

V * * • «- o 

- 

v*V 




<?> *0,0° .V 

♦ *> V . 

^ -6 *“ / 
• ^ A V * 


^/';-v A* 

* ^ V 

,£. A. ► 

* A V * 

: ^v u* v v* 

* A ^n. -* o « V*^v» o^ttww * 'JV •* ^ 

4 * ^ -jUS* ^ ^ °y?C%* # j^ 

. o.*- a v \p VTyT* A <v 'o,7- .cr *o ♦ 

<- ' * - ^ ^ flV o ° " ° <f **b . & « *■ ' » * <£ . q » o " a „ *^o 

V c •a 5$SW*„ ° <4** ♦W^ ' V Cr •IsSSWT. o 

"W •v^ssiV- ^a 


'o V 



>° -V , 

,* O o “V ' 

•’• A 0 ^ '•«<’" A>’ 

O v »lVL'» > V *’*”- 'c> 

* %<* a v ♦ j; 

; V\ v :w»°. 'TpV 

* C.^ ''V -* *> aV'Y. 7 

* A? ^ gTflf^g ♦ aV *>%. o 

4 aY <4* “H * ^ • 

<*, '0.7- ,G V *0, *?XT* A <* 

t-u- . t- ' * <4* qv o 0 " ® ♦ ^O «& **•'*, 

Aj * &d[//yt^ - , . <5^NN\n'\v' a^ * JFHf//^. - •y 




o V 



' >0 ^ . 

♦ r\ ^ 

a° V '‘.TT’* 


\rvV 


A *vv • 



- - ** ,/ % 
<>. '*“* A° 

L > • _ <P . /"\» . O ™ O . ' / 




4?^ ^ 

o ^ s*m*r. ^ 

: ^ ^ • 

• aV^ *o 

* 4/ ^ °, 

v , <!\ 'o.7- ,G V ^ * 

jA , »■ ' » , (y o 0 " ® -» ^o 



- 1 *-°' ^ _ 

* ^>v A** '■ J i 

° c v * ^ 

O 

* * aV^\ 0 H 

* W> ^ «K , AV V. 0 ‘ 

77T* v ^ <, '0.7- <0^ *'77s- A <\. 

0 “!*•! °~ ^ V , c° ,-^w;. A ♦Va^L’- % 

> >° «5 'b. ,, IJ*- •. 





<!> '•.o’ A V O#. *■•'<’•■ A°' \ *..•’ ,V 

.•V', -> \> ,*••, o. .0 V >LV1'» *> v % 

•^-k '''MMx *1 

a v- V • i w^; \^w.* a^V 

^ ^ -f.T. c,v ^ % *'f..** * 

, 0^ c 0 * ® , ^O aJ^ .*•'*. ,< ^A . O' 6 0 * 0 * ^o 

— A ^OCV ^ • 1 .Ik i _ < Cl 4 r^tv . ^ 


















THIS EDITION OF THE 
WRITINGS OF 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
IS LIMITED 
TO FIVE HUNDRED 
SIGNED AND NUMBERED 
COPIES 

OF WHICH THIS IS 
. NO. X 

&--e. . 








? 



Does she not look sweetly 



THE WRITINGS OF 



HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 












THE SNOW-IMAGE 


CM 

AND OTHER TWICE-TOLD TALES 


BY 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
(2Tl)e Rtoemfce JJregg, Cambrige 
MDCCCC 



Library of Cong re** 

Two Copier n 

DEC 20 ‘900 

Copyright witry 

DEC / o 1900 

FIRST COPY 

2nd Copy Delivered to 

ORDER DIVISION 

I DEC 21 1 9 00 



COPYRIGHT, I9OO, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE .... 
DEDICATORY LETTER .... 

THE SNOW-IMAGE : A CHILDISH MIRACLE 
THE GREAT STONE FACE 

MAIN STREET ...... 

ETHAN BRAND • 

A bell’s BIOGRAPHY ..... 
SYLPH ETHEREDGE * 

THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS 
OLD NEWS *. 

I. OLD NEWS ..... 

II. THE OLD FRENCH WAR 

III. THE OLD TORY .... 

THE MAN OF ADAMANT : AN APOLOGUE 
THE DEVIL IN MANUSCRIPT 
JOHN INGLEFIELD’S THANKSGIVING 
OLD TICONDEROGA : A PICTURE OF THE PAST 
THE WIVES OF THE DEAD 

LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY .... 
MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 


PAGE 

ix 

xix 

I 

2 9 

6 3 

112 

141 

153 

166 

183 

197 

215 

226 

2 39 

252 

261 

270 

281 

2 93 









































INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


This third volume of Twice-Told Tales did not 
follow immediately upon the other two. The 
Mosses from an Old Manse intervened, and in 
1875 Hawthorne edited for his friend, Horatio 
Bridge, U. S. N., the volume bearing the title- 
page Journal | of an | African Cruiser, | comprising 
sketches of the Canaries, the Cape de|Verds, Li- 
beria, Madeira, Sierra Leone, andlother places of 
interest on the west|coast of Africa|By an officer 
of theU. S. Navy|Edited by|Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne|New York and London| Wiley & Put- 
namj 1 845. The brief preface by Hawthorne in- 
timates that his share in the book was that of a 
literary man putting into shape, with no special 
writing of his own, the daily log of a friend ; and 
no attempt therefore has been made to elim- 
inate Hawthorne's material for use in a collection 
of his writings. 

Horatio Bridge was a college friend of Haw- 
thorne, and his name appears in the American 
Note-Books , especially in that portion which re- 
cords the visit of a month which Hawthorne 
paid his friend in his bachelor quarters in the 
woods of Maine. A number of his letters to 
Hawthorne are printed in Hawthorne and his 
ix 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


This third volume of Twice-Told Tales did not 
follow immediately upon the other two. The 
Mosses from an Old Manse intervened, and in 
1875 Hawthorne edited for his friend, Horatio 
Bridge, U. S. N., the volume bearing the title- 
page Journal | of an | African Cruiser, | comprising 
sketches of the Canaries, the Cape de|Verds, Li- 
beria, Madeira, Sierra Leone, andlother places of 
interest on the west|coast of Africa|By an officer 
of theU. S. Navy|Edited by|Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne|New York and London| Wiley & Put- 
namj 1 845. The brief preface by Hawthorne in- 
timates that his share in the book was that of a 
literary man putting into shape, with no special 
writing of his own, the daily log of a friend ; and 
no attempt therefore has been made to elim- 
inate Hawthorne's material for use in a collection 
of his writings. 

Horatio Bridge was a college friend of Haw- 
thorne, and his name appears in the American 
Note-Books , especially in that portion which re- 
cords the visit of a month which Hawthorne 
paid his friend in his bachelor quarters in the 
woods of Maine. A number of his letters to 
Hawthorne are printed in Hawthorne and his 
ix 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


This third volume of Twice-Told Tales did not 
follow immediately upon the other two. The 
Mosses from an Old Manse intervened, and in 
1875 Hawthorne edited for his friend, Horatio 
Bridge, U. S. N., the volume bearing the title- 
page Journal | of an | African Cruiser, | comprising 
sketches of the Canaries, the Cape de|Verds, Li- 
beria, Madeira, Sierra Leone, andlother places of 
interest on the west|coast of Africa|By an officer 
of theU. S. Navy|Edited by|Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne|New York and London| Wiley & Put- 
namj 1 845. The brief preface by Hawthorne in- 
timates that his share in the book was that of a 
literary man putting into shape, with no special 
writing of his own, the daily log of a friend ; and 
no attempt therefore has been made to elim- 
inate Hawthorne's material for use in a collection 
of his writings. 

Horatio Bridge was a college friend of Haw- 
thorne, and his name appears in the American 
Note-Books , especially in that portion which re- 
cords the visit of a month which Hawthorne 
paid his friend in his bachelor quarters in the 
woods of Maine. A number of his letters to 
Hawthorne are printed in Hawthorne and his 
ix 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


earliest publication ; and some of the material 
hints at experience of life still earlier, as in the 
tale of “ The Canterbury Pilgrims/’ which was 
based on a visit which he made to the Shaker 
community in Canterbury, New Hampshire, in 
1830, when he was twenty-six years old. “ I 
spoke to them ” (the sisters), he wrote to one 
of his own sisters, “ about becoming a member 
of their community, but have come to no de- 
cision on that point.” He played with this in 
fancy, as later he was to experiment with the 
community life at Brook Farm, and for a little 
while the notion colored his plans. “ When I 
join the Shakers,” he writes to his sister Louisa 
in 1831, and the atmosphere through which he 
sees them at this time is much the same as that 
in which a visionary young priest might look 
on the monastery, — the opportunity at once 
for seclusion and the contemplative life. Later, 
when with his little family in Lenox, perhaps 
after re-reading his sketch for a second publi- 
cation, he made a visit to a similar establish- 
ment in Hancock, in Berkshire County, but 
came away disillusionized. “ Their utter and 
systematic lack of privacy,” he writes, <c is hate- 
ful to think of. The sooner the sect is extinct, 
the better, I think.” 

Another of the early pieces, “ The Devil in 
Manuscript,” contains a half-autobiographic 
xii 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


confession ; for after his unsuccessful issue of 
Fanshawe , he had such a series of disappoint- 
ments over the publication of another work to 
which he had given the title Seven Tales of my 
Native Land , with the motto from Wordsworth, 
“ We are Seven,” that he burned the manuscript. 
The name “ Oberon,” Mr. Bridge tells us, was a 
signature which Mr. Hawthorne adopted in the 
correspondence which they carried on after leav- 
ing college, and used occasionally with his printed 
papers. 

Mr. Julian Hawthorne thinks that “ Ethan 
Brand ” was the story referred to in a letter from 
Mrs. Hawthorne to her mother, dated Salem, 
1848. Miss Elizabeth Peabody was making a 
publishing venture in the form of a periodical 
series, entitled JEsthetic Papers . “ I shall send 
with this letter,” she writes, “ my husband’s 
article for Elizabeth’s book. What is the name 
of the book ? My husband says that if this 
paper will not suit the book, he will make some 
other use of it if you will send it back. He 
wishes the note at the end of the manuscript to 
be placed at the beginning of the printed text 
as a preface ; and he thinks it had better be 
upon a separate fore-leaf. It is a tremendous 
truth, written as he writes truth, with characters 
of fire, upon an infinite gloom, — soft and so 
xiii 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


as not wholly to terrify, by divine touches of 
beauty, — revealing pictures of nature, and also 
the tender spirit of a child.” The article ac- 
tually printed in A Esthetic Papers was “ Main 
Street.” 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 


The title-page of the volume as first pub- 
lished was as follows : — 

The | Snow-Image | and | Other Twice-Told 
TaleslBy Nathaniel Hawthornel BostonlTick- 
nor, Reed and Fields | mdccclii. 

The contents of the volume have remained 
the same in all subsequent editions. The fol- 
lowing list gives the first appearance of each of 
the pieces, arranged in chronological order. 

1. The Wives of the Dead. 

Published with the signature F. ... in The 
Token , 1832. Under the title “ The Two 
Widows,” it was published with the author’s 
name in The Democratic Review , July, 1843. 

2. My Kinsman, Major Molineux. 

Published in The Token , 1832, and entered 

as tc By the Author of 1 Sights from a 
Steeple.’ ” 

3. The Canterbury Pilgrims. 

Published anonymously in The Token , 1833. 

4. Old News. 

I. Published anonymously in The New Eng- 
land Magazine , February, 1835. 
xv 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


II. The Old French War. 

The same, March, 1835. 

III. The Old Tory. 

The same, May, 1835. 

5. The Devil in Manuscript. 

Published in The New England Magazine , No- 
vember, 1835, and credited to Ashley A. 
Royce. 

6. Old Ticonderoga : a Picture of the Past. 
Published anonymously in The American 

Monthly Magazine , February, 1836. 

7. The Man of Adamant : An Apologue. 
Published in The Token , 1837, and entered as 

“ By the Author of c The Gentle Boy/ ” 

8. A Bell’s Biography. 

Published in The Knickerbocker , March, 1837, 
and entered as “ By the Author of Twice- 
Told Tales , c The Fountain of Youth,’ etc.” 

9. Sylph Etherege. 

Published anonymously in The Token , 1833. 

10. John Inglefield’s Thanksgiving. 

Published in The Democratic Review , March, 
1840, as by the Rev. A. A. Royce. 

11. Little Daffydowndilly. 

Published in the Boys' and Girls' Magazine , 
1843. 

12. Main Street. 

Published in ^Esthetic Papers , edited by Miss 
Elizabeth Peabody, 1849, wit h the author’s 
name. 

13. The Great Stone Face. 


xvi 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 


Published in The National Era , January 24, 
1850, with the author’s name. 

14. The Snow-Image : a Childish Miracle. 

Published in The International Magazine, No- 
vember, 1850, with the author’s name. 

15. Ethan Brand : a Chapter from an Abortive 

Romance. 

Published as u Ethan Brand, or the Unpardon- 
able Sin,” in Holden’s Dollar Magazine , 
May, 1851, with the author’s name, 
xvii 








DEDICATORY LETTER 


TO HORATIO BRIDGE, ESQ., U. S. N. 

My dear Bridge, — Some of the more 
crabbed of my critics, I understand, have pro- 
nounced your friend egotistical, indiscreet, and 
even impertinent, on account of the Prefaces and 
Introductions with which, on several occasions, 
he has seen fit to pave the reader’s way into the 
interior edifice of a book. In the justice of this 
censure I do not exactly concur, for the reasons, 
on the one hand, that the public generally has 
negatived the idea of undue freedom on the 
author’s part by evincing, it seems to me, rather 
more interest in those aforesaid Introductions 
than in the stories which followed ; and that, 
on the other hand, with whatever appearance 
of confidential intimacy, I have been especially 
careful to make no disclosures respecting myself 
which the most indifferent observer might not 
have been acquainted with, and which I was not 
perfectly willing my worst enemy should know. 
I might further justify myself, on the plea that 
ever since my youth I have been addressing a 
very limited circle of friendly readers, without 
much danger of being overheard by the public 
xix 


DEDICATORY LETTER 


at large ; and that the habits thus acquired might 
pardonably continue, although strangers may 
have begun to mingle with my audience. 

But the charge, I am bold to say, is not a 
reasonable one, in any view which we can fairly 
take of it. There is no harm, but, on the con- 
trary, good, in arraying some of the ordinary 
facts of life in a slightly idealized and artistic 
guise. I have taken facts which relate to my- 
self, because they chance to be nearest at hand, 
and likewise are my own property. And, as for 
egotism, a person who has been burrowing, to 
his utmost ability, into the depths of our com- 
mon nature, for the purposes of psychological 
romance, — and who pursues his researches in 
that dusky region, as he needs must, as well by 
the tact of sympathy as by the light of observa- 
tion, — will smile at incurring such an imputa- 
tion in virtue of a little preliminary talk about 
his external habits, his abode, his casual associ- 
ates, and other matters entirely upon the sur- 
face. These things hide the man, instead of 
displaying him. You must make quite another 
kind of inquest, and look through the whole 
range of his fictitious characters, good and evil, 
in order to detect any of his essential traits. 

Be all this as it may, there can be no question 
as to the propriety of my inscribing this volume 
of earlier and later sketches to you, and pausing 
here, a few moments, to speak of them, as friend 
xx 


TO HORATIO BRIDGE, ESQ. 

speaks to friend; still being cautious, however, 
that the public and the critics shall overhear no- 
thing which we care about concealing. On you, 
if on no other person, I am entitled to rely, 
to sustain the position of my Dedicatee. If 
anybody is responsible for my being at this day 
an author, it is yourself. I know not whence 
your faith came; but, while we were lads to- 
gether at a country college, — gathering blueber- 
ries, in study-hours, under those tall academic 
pines ; or watching the great logs, as they tum- 
bled along the current of the Androscoggin ; or 
shooting pigeons and gray squirrels in the 
woods ; or bat-fowling in the summer twilight ; 
or catching trouts in that shadowy little stream 
which, I suppose, is still wandering riverward 
through the forest, — though you and I will 
never cast a line in it again, — two idle lads, in 
short (as we need not fear to acknowledge now), 
doing a hundred things that the Faculty never 
heard of, or else it had been the worse for us, 
— still it was your prognostic of your friend's 
destiny, that he was to be a writer of fiction. 

And a fiction-monger, in due season, he be- 
came. But was there ever such a weary delay 
in obtaining the slightest recognition from the 
public, as in my case ? I sat down by the way- 
side of life, like a man under enchantment, and 
a shrubbery sprang up around me, and the 
bushes grew to be saplings, and the saplings 
xxi 


DEDICATORY LETTER 


became trees, until no exit appeared possible, 
through the entangling depths of my obscurity. 
And there, perhaps, I should be sitting at this 
moment, with the moss on the imprisoning tree 
trunks, and the yellow leaves of more than a 
score of autumns piled above me, if it had not 
been for you. For it was through your inter- 
position — and that, moreover, unknown to him- 
self — that your early friend was brought be- 
fore the public, somewhat more prominently 
than theretofore, in the first volume of Twice- 
Told Tales . Not a publisher in America, I 
presume, would have thought well enough of 
my forgotten or never noticed stories to risk 
the expense of print and paper ; nor do I say 
this with any purpose of casting odium on the 
respectable fraternity of booksellers, for their 
blindness to my wonderful merit. To confess 
the truth, I doubted of the public recognition 
quite as much as they could do. So much the 
more generous was your confidence ; and know- 
ing, as I do, that it was founded on old friend- 
ship rather than cold criticism, I value it only 
the more for that. 

So, now, when I turn back upon my path, 
lighted by a transitory gleam of public favor, 
to pick up a few articles which were left out of 
my former collections, I take pleasure in mak- 
ing them the memorial of our very long and 
unbroken connection. Some of these sketches 
xxii 


TO HORATIO BRIDGE, ESQ. 

were among the earliest that I wrote, and, after 
lying for years in manuscript, they at last skulked 
into the Annuals or Magazines, and have hid- 
den themselves there ever since. Others were 
the productions of a later period ; others, again, 
were written recently. The comparison of these 
various trifles — the indices of intellectual con- 
ditions at far separate epochs — affects me with 
a singular complexity of regrets. I am disposed 
to quarrel with the earlier sketches, both because 
a mature judgment discerns so many faults, and 
still more because they come so nearly up to 
the standard of the best that I can achieve now. 
The ripened autumnal fruit tastes but little bet- 
ter than the early windfalls. It would, indeed, 
be mortifying to believe that the summer-time 
of life has passed away, without any greater pro- 
gress and improvement than is indicated here. 
But — at least so I would fain hope — these 
things are scarcely to be depended upon, as 
measures of the intellectual and moral man. In 
youth, men are apt to write more wisely than 
they really know or feel ; and the remainder of 
life may be not idly spent in realizing and con- 
vincing themselves of the wisdom which they 
uttered long ago. The truth that was only in 
the fancy then may have since become a sub- 
stance in the mind and heart. 

I have nothing further, I think, to say ; un- 
less it be that the public need not dread my 
xxiii 


DEDICATORY LETTER 


again trespassing on its kindness, with any more 
of these musty and mouse-nibbled leaves of old 
periodicals, transformed, by the magic arts of 
my friendly publishers, into a new book. These 
are the last. Or, if a few still remain, they are 
either such as no paternal partiality could induce 
the author to think worth preserving, or else 
they have got into some very dark and dusty 
hiding-place, quite out of my own remembrance, 
and whence no researches can avail to unearth 
them. So there let them rest. 

Very sincerely yours, 

N. H. 

Lenox, November i, 1851. 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

AND OTHER TWICE-TOLD TALES 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

A CHILDISH MIRACLE 

O NE afternoon of a cold winter’s day, 
when the sun shone forth with chilly 
brightness, after a long storm, two chil- 
dren asked leave of their mother to run out and 
play in the new-fallen snow. The elder child 
was a little girl, whom, because she was of a 
tender and modest disposition, and was thought 
to be very beautiful, her parents, and other 
people who were familiar with her, used to call 
Violet. But her brother was known by the 
style and title of Peony, on account of the rud- 
diness of his broad and round little phiz, which 
made everybody think of sunshine and great 
scarlet flowers. The father of these two chil- 
dren, a certain Mr. Lindsey, it is important to 
say, was an excellent but exceedingly matter of 
fact sort of man, a dealer in hardware, and was 
sturdily accustomed to take what is called the 
common-sense view of all matters that came 

i 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


under his consideration. With a heart about 
as tender as other people's, he had a head as 
hard and impenetrable, and therefore, perhaps, 
as empty, as one of the iron pots which it was 
a part of his business to sell. The mother's 
character, on the other hand, had a strain of 
poetry in it, a trait of unworldly beauty, — a 
delicate and dewy flower, as it were, that had 
survived out of her imaginative youth, and 
still kept itself alive amid the dusty realities of 
matrimony and motherhood. 

So, Violet and Peony, as I began with saying, 
besought their mother to let them run out and 
play in the new snow ; for, though it had looked 
so dreary and dismal, drifting downward out of 
the gray sky, it had a very cheerful aspect, now 
that the sun was shining on it. The children 
dwelt in a city, and had no wider play-place 
than a little garden before the house, divided 
by a white fence from the street, and with a 
pear-tree and two or three plum-trees overshad- 
owing it, and some rosebushes just in front of 
the parlor windows. The trees and shrubs, 
however, were now leafless, and their twigs were 
enveloped in the light snow, which thus made 
a kind of wintry foliage, with here and there a 
pendent icicle for the fruit. 

“Yes, Violet, — yes, my little Peony," said 
their kind mother, “ you may go out and play 
in the new snow." 


2 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


Accordingly, the good lady bundled up her 
darlings in woollen jackets and wadded sacks, 
and put comforters round their necks, and a 
pair of striped gaiters on each little pair of legs, 
and worsted mittens on their hands, and gave 
them a kiss apiece, by way of a spell to keep 
away Jack Frost. Forth sallied the two chil- 
dren, with a hop-skip-and-jump, that carried 
them at once into the very heart of a huge snow- 
drift, whence Violet emerged like a snow-bunt- 
ing, while little Peony floundered out with his 
round face in full bloom. Then what a merry 
time had they ! To look at them, frolicking in 
the wintry garden, you would have thought 
that the dark and pitiless storm had been sent 
for no other purpose but to provide a new 
plaything for Violet and Peony ; and that they 
themselves had been created, as the snowbirds 
were, to take delight only in the tempest, and 
in the white mantle which is spread over the 
earth. 

At last, when they had frosted one another 
all over with handfuls of snow, Violet, after 
laughing heartily at little Peony’s figure, was 
struck with a new idea. 

“You look exactly like a snow-image. Pe- 
ony,” said she, “if your cheeks were not so red. 
And that puts me in mind ! Let us make an 
image out of snow, — an image of a little girl, 
— and it shall be our sister, and shall run about 
3 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


and play with us all winter long. Won't it be 
nice? " 

“ O, yes ! " cried Peony, as plainly as he 
could speak, for he was but a little boy. cc That 
will be nice ! And mamma shall see it ! " 

“ Yes," answered Violet ; “ mamma shall 
see the new little girl. But she must not make 
her come into the warm parlor ; for, you know, 
our little snow-sister will not love the warmth." 

And forthwith the children began this great 
business of making a snow-image that should 
run about ; while their mother, who was sitting 
at the window and overheard some of their talk, 
could not help smiling at the gravity with which 
they set about it. They really seemed to ima- 
gine that there would be no difficulty whatever 
in creating a live little girl out of the snow. 
And, to say the truth, if miracles are ever to be 
wrought, it will be by putting our hands to the 
work in precisely such a simple and undoubt- 
ing frame of mind as that in which Violet and 
Peony now undertook to perform one, without 
so much as knowing that it was a miracle. So 
thought the mother ; and thought, likewise, 
that the new snow, just fallen from heaven, 
would be excellent material to make new beings 
of, if it were not so very cold. She gazed at the 
children a moment longer, delighting to watch 
their little figures, — the girl, tall for her age, 
graceful and agile, and so delicately colored that 
4 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


she looked like a cheerful thought more than 
a physical reality ; while Peony expanded in 
breadth rather than height, and rolled along on 
his short and sturdy legs as substantial as an 
elephant, though not quite so big. Then the 
mother resumed her work. What it was I for- 
get ; but she was either trimming a silken bon- 
net for Violet, or darning a pair of stockings for 
little Peony’s short legs. Again, however, and 
again, and yet other agains, she could not help 
turning her head to the window to see how the 
children got on with their snow-image. 

Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight, 
those bright little souls at their task ! More- 
over, it was really wonderful to observe how 
knowingly and skilfully they managed the mat- 
ter. Violet assumed the chief direction, and 
told Peony what to do, while, with her own 
delicate fingers, she shaped out all the nicer 
parts of the snow-figure. It seemed, in fact, 
not so much to be made by the children, as to 
grow up under their hands, while they were 
playing and prattling about it. Their mother 
was quite surprised at this ; and the longer she 
looked, the more and more surprised she grew. 

“ What remarkable children mine are ! ” 
thought she, smiling with a mother’s pride ; and, 
smiling at herself, too, for being so proud of 
them. “What other children could have made 
anything so like a little girl’s figure out of snow 
5 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


at the first trial ? Well ; but now I must fin- 
ish Peony's new frock, for his grandfather is 
coming to-morrow, and I want the little fellow 
to look handsome.” 

So she took up the frock, and was soon as 
busily at work again with her needle as the two 
children with their snow-image. But still, as 
the needle travelled hither and thither through 
the seams of the dress, the mother made her 
toil light and happy by listening to the airy 
voices of Violet and Peony. They kept talking 
to one another all the time, their tongues being 
quite as active as their feet and hands. Except 
at intervals, she could not distinctly hear what 
was said, but had merely a sweet impression 
that they were in a most loving mood, and were 
enjoying themselves highly, and that the busi- 
ness of making the snow-image went prosper- 
ously on. Now and then, however, when Violet 
and Peony happened to raise their voices, the 
words were as audible as if they had been spoken 
in the very parlor where the mother sat. O, 
how delightfully those words echoed in her 
heart, even though they meant nothing so very 
wise or wonderful, after all ! 

But you must know a mother listens with 
her heart much more than with her ears ; and 
thus she is often delighted with the trills of 
celestial music, when other people can hear no- 
thing of the kind. 


6 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


“ Peony, Peony ! ” cried Violet to her bro- 
ther, who had gone to another part of the gar- 
den, c< bring me some of that fresh snow. Peony, 
from the very farthest corner, where we have 
not been trampling. I want it to shape our 
little snow-sister's bosom with. You know 
that part must be quite pure, just as it came 
out of the sky ! ” 

“ Here it is, Violet ! ” answered Peony, in 
his bluff tone, — but a very sweet tone, too, — 
as he came floundering through the half-trod- 
den drifts. “ Here is the snow for her little 
bosom. O Violet, how beau-ti-ful she begins to 
look ! ” 

“ Yes,” said Violet thoughtfully and quietly ; 
“ our snow-sister does look very lovely. I did 
not quite know, Peony, that we could make 
such a sweet little girl as this.” 

The mother, as she listened, thought how fit 
and delightful an incident it would be, if fairies, 
or still better, if angel-children were to come 
from paradise, and play invisibly with her own 
darlings, and help them to make their snow- 
image, giving it the features of celestial baby- 
hood ! Violet and Peony would not be aware 
of their immortal playmates, — only they would 
see that the image grew very beautiful while 
they worked at it, and would think that they 
themselves had done it all. 

“ My little girl and boy deserve such play- 

7 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


mates, if mortal children ever did ! ” said the 
mother to herself ; and then she smiled again 
at her own motherly pride. 

Nevertheless, the idea seized upon her imagi- 
nation ; and, ever and anon, she took a glimpse 
out of the window, half dreaming that she might 
see the golden-haired children of paradise sport- 
ing with her own golden-haired Violet and 
bright-cheeked Peony. 

Now, for a few moments, there was a busy 
and earnest but indistinct hum of the two chil- 
dren's voices, as Violet and Peony wrought to- 
gether with one happy consent. Violet still 
seemed to be the guiding spirit, while Peony 
acted rather as a laborer, and brought her the 
snow from far and near. And yet the little 
urchin evidently had a proper understanding of 
the matter, too ! 

“ Peony, Peony ! ” cried Violet ; for her 
brother was again at the other side of the gar- 
den. “ Bring me those light wreaths of snow \ 
that have rested on the lower branches of the 
pear-tree. You can clamber on the snowdrift. 
Peony, and reach them easily. I must have 
them to make some ringlets for our snow-sister's 
head ! " 

“ Here they are, Violet ! " answered the lit- 
tle boy. “ Take care you do not break them. 
Well done ! Well done ! How pretty ! " 

“ Does she not look sweetly ? " said Violet, 

8 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


with a very satisfied tone ; “ and now we must 
have some little shining bits of ice, to make the 
brightness of her eyes. She is not finished yet. 
Mamma will see how very beautiful she is ; but 
papa will say, c Tush ! nonsense ! — come in out 
of the cold ! ’ ” 

“ Let us call mamma to look out,” said Pe- 
ony ; and then he shouted lustily, “ Mamma ! 
mamma ! ! mamma ! ! ! Look out, and see 
what a nice ’ittle girl we are making ! ” 

The mother put down her work for an in- 
stant, and looked out of the window. But it 
so happened that the sun — for this was one of 
the shortest days of the whole year — had 
sunken so nearly to the edge of the world that 
his setting shine came obliquely into the lady’s 
eyes. So she was dazzled, you must under- 
stand, and could not very distinctly observe 
what was in the garden. Still, however, through 
all that bright, blinding dazzle of the sun and 
the new snow, she beheld a small white figure 
in the garden, that seemed to have a wonderful 
deal of human likeness about it. And she saw 
Violet and Peony, — indeed, she looked more 
at them than at the image, — she saw the two 
children still at work ; Peony bringing fresh 
snow, and Violet applying it to the figure as 
scientifically as a sculptor adds clay to his model. 
Indistinctly as she discerned the snow-child, the 
mother thought to herself that never before was 
9 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


there a snow-figure so cunningly made, nor ever 
such a dear little girl and boy to make it. 

“ They do everything better than other chil- 
dren,” said she very complacently. “No won- 
der they make better snow-images ! ” 

She sat down again to her work, and made 
as much haste with it as possible ; because twi- 
light would soon come, and Peony’s frock was 
not yet finished, and grandfather was expected, 
by railroad, pretty early in the morning. Faster 
and faster, therefore, went her flying fingers. 
The children, likewise, kept busily at work in 
the garden, and still the mother listened, when- 
ever she could catch a word. She was amused 
to observe how their little imaginations had got 
mixed up with what they were doing, and carried 
away by it. They seemed positively to think 
that the snow-child would run about and play 
with them. 

“ What a nice playmate she will be for us, all 
winter long ! ” said Violet. “ I hope papa will 
not be afraid of her giving us a cold ! Sha’n’t 
you love her dearly, Peony ? ” 

“ O, yes ! ” cried Peony. “ And I will hug 
her, and she shall sit down close by me, and 
drink some of my warm milk ! ” 

“ O, no, Peony ! ” answered Violet, with grave 
wisdom. “ That will not do at all. Warm 
milk will not be wholesome for our little snow- 
sister. Little snow-people, like her, eat noth- 
io 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


ing but icicles. No, no, Peony ; we must not 
give her anything warm to drink ! ” 

There was a minute or two of silence ; for 
Peony, whose short legs were never weary, had 
gone on a pilgrimage again to the other side of 
the garden. All of a sudden, Violet cried out, 
loudly and joyfully, — 

“ Look here, Peony ! Come quickly ! A 
light has been shining on her cheek out of that 
rose-colored cloud ! and the color does not go 
away ! Is not that beautiful ! ” 

“Yes; it is beau-ti-ful,” answered Peony, 
pronouncing the three syllables with deliberate 
accuracy. “ O Violet, only look at her hair ! 
It is all like gold ! ” 

“ O, certainly,” said Violet with tranquillity, 
as if it were very much a matter of course. 
“ That color, you know, comes from the golden 
clouds, that we see up there in the sky. She 
is almost finished now. But her lips must be 
made very red, — redder than her cheeks. Per- 
haps, Peony, it will make them red if we both 
kiss them ! ” 

Accordingly, the mother heard two smart lit- 
tle smacks, as if both her children were kissing 
the snow-image on its frozen mouth. But, as 
this did not seem to make the lips quite red 
enough, Violet next proposed that the snow- 
child should be invited to kiss Peony’s scarlet* 
cheek. 


ii 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


“ Come, ’ittle snow-sister, kiss me ! ” cried 
Peony. 

“ There ! she has kissed you,” added Violet, 
“ and now her lips are very red. And she 
blushed a little, too ! ” 

“ O, what a cold kiss ! ” cried Peony. 

Just then, there came a breeze of the pure 
west wind, sweeping through the garden and 
rattling the parlor windows. It sounded so win- 
try cold, that the mother was about to tap on 
the window-pane with her thimbled finger, to 
summon the two children in, when they both 
cried out to her with one voice. The tone was 
not a tone of surprise, although they were evi- 
dently a good deal excited ; it appeared rather 
as if they were very much rejoiced at some event 
that had now happened, but which they had 
been looking for, and had reckoned upon all 
along. 

“ Mamma ! mamma ! We have finished our 
little snow-sister, and she is running about the 
garden with us ! ” 

“ What imaginative little beings my children 
are ! ” thought the mother, putting the last few 
stitches into Peony’s frock. “ And it is strange, 
too, that they make me almost as much a child 
as they themselves are ! I can hardly help be- 
lieving, now, that the snow-image has really 
come to life ! ” 


12 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


“ Dear mamma ! ” cried Violet, “ pray look 
out and see what a sweet playmate we have ! ” 
The mother, being thus entreated, could no 
longer delay to look forth from the window. 
The sun was now gone out of the sky, leaving, 
however, a rich inheritance of his brightness 
among those purple and golden clouds which 
make the sunsets of winter so magnificent. But 
there was not the slightest gleam or dazzle, 
either on the window or on the snow ; so that 
the good lady could look all over the garden, 
and see everything and everybody in it. And 
what do you think she saw there ? Violet and 
Peony, of course, her own two darling children. 
Ah, but whom or what did she see besides ? 
Why, if you will believe me, there was a small 
figure of a girl, dressed all in white, with rose- 
tinged cheeks and ringlets of golden hue, play- 
ing about the garden with the two children ! A 
stranger though she was, the child seemed to be 
on as familiar terms with Violet and Peony, and 
they with her, as if all the three had been play- 
mates during the whole of their little lives. The 
mother thought to herself that it must certainly 
be the daughter of one of the neighbors, and 
that, seeing Violet and Peony in the garden, 
the child had run across the street to play with 
them. So this kind lady went to the door, 
intending to invite the little runaway into her 
comfortable parlor ; for, now that the sunshine 
1 3 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


was withdrawn, the atmosphere, out of doors, 
was already growing very cold. 

But, after opening the house door, she 
stood an instant on the threshold, hesitating 
whether she ought to ask the child to come in, 
or whether she should even speak to her. In- 
deed, she almost doubted whether it were a real 
child after all, or only a light wreath of the new- 
fallen snow, blown hither and thither about the 
garden by the intensely cold west wind. There 
was certainly something very singular in the 
aspect of the little stranger. Among all the 
children of the neighborhood, the lady could 
remember no such face, with its pure white, and 
delicate rose color, and the golden ringlets toss- 
ing about the forehead and cheeks. And as for 
her dress, which was entirely of white, and flut- 
tering in the breeze, it was such as no reason- 
able woman would put upon a little girl, when 
sending her out to play, in the depth of winter. 
It made this kind and careful mother shiver 
only to look at those small feet, with nothing 
in the world on them, except a very thin pair of 
white slippers. Nevertheless, airily as she was 
clad, the child seemed to feel not the slightest 
inconvenience from the cold, but danced so 
lightly over the snow that the tips of her toes 
left hardly a print in its surface ; while Violet 
could but just keep pace with her, and Peony’s 
short legs compelled him to lag behind. 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


Once, in the course of their play, the strange 
child placed herself between Violet and Peony, 
and, taking a hand of each, skipped merrily for- 
ward, and they along with her. Almost im- 
mediately, however, Peony pulled away his little 
fist, and began to rub it as if the fingers were 
tingling with cold ; while Violet also released 
herself, though with less abruptness, gravely 
remarking that it was better not to take hold 
of hands. The white-robed damsel said not a 
word, but danced about, just as merrily as be- 
fore. If Violet and Peony did not choose to 
play with her, she could make just as good a 
playmate of the brisk and cold west wind, which 
kept blowing her all about the garden, and took 
such liberties with her, that they seemed to have 
been friends for a long time. All this while, 
the mother stood on the threshold, wondering 
how a little girl could look so much like a fly- 
ing snowdrift, or how a snowdrift could look so 
very like a little girl. 

She called Violet, and whispered to her. 

“ Violet, my darling, what is this child’s 
name ? ” asked she. “ Does she live near us ? ” 

“ Why, dearest mamma,” answered Violet, 
laughing to think that her mother did not com- 
prehend so very plain an affair, cc this is our 
little snow-sister whom we have just been mak- 
ing ! ” 

“ Yes, dear mamma,” cried Peony, running 
i5 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


to his mother, and looking up simply into her 
face. “This is our snow-image! Is it not a 
nice , ittle child ? ” 

At this instant a flock of snowbirds came 
flitting through the air. As was very natural, 
they avoided Violet and Peony. But — and 
this looked strange — they flew at once to the 
white-robed child, fluttered eagerly about her 
head, alighted on her shoulders, and seemed to 
claim her as an old acquaintance. She, on her 
part, was evidently as glad to see these little 
birds, old Winter's grandchildren, as they were 
to see her, and welcomed them by holding out 
both her hands. Hereupon, they each and all 
tried to alight on her two palms and ten small 
fingers and thumbs, crowding one another off, 
with an immense fluttering of their tiny wings. 
One dear little bird nestled tenderly in her bo- 
som ; another put its bill to her lips. They were 
as joyous, all the while, and seemed as much 
in their element, as you may have seen them 
when sporting with a snowstorm. 

Violet and Peony stood laughing at this 
pretty sight; for they enjoyed the merry time 
which their new playmate was having with these 
small-winged visitants, almost as much as if 
they themselves took part in it. 

Cf Violet," said her mother, greatly perplexed, 
cc tell me the truth, without any jest. Who is 
this little girl ? ” 

16 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


“ My darling mamma,” answered Violet, 
looking seriously into her mother’s face, and 
apparently surprised that she should need any 
further explanation, “ I have told you truly who 
she is. It is our little snow-image, which Peony 
and I have been making. Peony will tell you 
so, as well as I.” 

“Yes, mamma,” asseverated Peony, with 
much gravity in his crimson little phiz ; “ this 
is ’ittle snow-child. Is not she a nice one ? 
But, mamma, her hand is, O, so very cold ! ” 

While mamma still hesitated what to think 
and what to do, the street gate was thrown open, 
and the father of Violet and Peony appeared, 
wrapped in a pilot-cloth sack, with a fur cap 
drawn down over his ears, and the thickest of 
gloves upon his hands. Mr. Lindsey was a 
middle-aged man, with a weary and yet a happy 
look in his wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, 
as if he had been busy all the day long, and was 
glad to get back to his quiet home. His eyes 
brightened at the sight of his wife and children, 
although he could not help uttering a word or 
two of surprise, at finding the whole family in 
the open air, on so bleak a day, and after sun- 
set too. He soon perceived the little white 
stranger sporting to and fro in the garden, like a 
dancing snow-wreath, and the flock of snow- 
birds fluttering about her head. 

“ Pray, what little girl may that be ? ” in- 
*7 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


quired this very sensible man. “ Surely her 
mother must be crazy to let her go out in such 
bitter weather as it has been to-day, with only 
that flimsy white gown and those thin slippers ! ” 
“ My dear husband,” said his wife, “ I know 
no more about the little thing than you do. 
Some neighbor’s child, I suppose. Our Violet 
and Peony,” she added, laughing at herself 
for repeating so absurd a story, cc insist that she 
is nothing but a snow-image, which they have 
been busy about in the garden almost all the 
afternoon.” 

As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes 
toward the spot where the children’s snow-image 
had been made. What was her surprise, on per- 
ceiving that there was not the slightest trace of 
so much labor ! — no image at all ! — no piled- 
up heap of snow ! — nothing whatever, save the 
prints of little footsteps around a vacant space ! 
“ This is very strange ! ” said she. 

“What is strange, dear mother ? ” asked Vio- 
let. “ Dear father, do not you see how it is ? 
This is our snow-image, which Peony and I 
have made, because we wanted another play- 
mate. Did not we, Peony ? ” 

“ Yes, papa,” said crimson Peony. “ This 
be our ’ittle snow-sister. Is she not beau-ti-ful ? 
But she gave me such a cold kiss ! ” 

“ Poh, nonsense, children ! ” cried their good, 
honest father, who, as we have already inti- 
18 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


mated, had an exceedingly common-sensible 
way of looking at matters. “ Do not tell me 
of making live figures out of snow. Come, 
wife ; this little stranger must not stay out in 
the bleak air a moment longer. We will bring 
her into the parlor ; and you shall give her a 
supper of warm bread and milk, and make her 
as comfortable as you can. Meanwhile, I will 
inquire among the neighbors ; or, if necessary, 
send the city-crier about the streets, to give 
notice of a lost child.” 

So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted 
man was going toward the little white damsel, 
with the best intentions in the world. But Vio- 
let and Peony, each seizing their father by the 
hand, earnestly besought him not to make her 
come in. 

“ Dear father,” cried Violet, putting herself 
before him, “ it is true what I have been telling 
you ! This is our little snow-girl, and she can- 
not live any longer than while she breathes the 
cold west wind. Do not make her come into 
the hot room ! ” 

“Yes, father,” shouted Peony, stamping his 
little foot, so mightily was he in earnest, “ this 
be nothing but our ’ittle snow-child ! She will 
not love the hot fire ! ” 

“ Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense ! ” 
cried the father, half vexed, half laughing at 
what he considered their foolish obstinacy. 
i9 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


“ Run into the house this moment ! It is too 
late to play any longer now. I must take care 
of this little girl immediately, or she will catch 
her death-a-cold ! ” 

“ Husband ! dear husband ! ” said his wife, in 
a low voice, — for she had been looking nar- 
rowly at the snow-child, and was more perplexed 
than ever, — <c there is something very singular 
in all this. You will think me foolish, — but — 
but — may it not be that some invisible angel 
has been attracted by the simplicity and good 
faith with which our children set about their 
undertaking ? May he not have spent an hour 
of his immortality in playing with those dear 
little souls ? and so the result is what we call a 
miracle. No, no ! Do not laugh at me ; I 
see what a foolish thought it is ! ” 

“ My dear wife,” replied the husband, laugh- 
ing heartily, “ you are as much a child as Violet 
and Peony.” 

And in one sense so she was, for all through 
life she had kept her heart full of childlike sim- 
plicity and faith, which was as pure and clear as 
crystal ; and, looking at all matters through this 
transparent medium, she sometimes saw truths 
so profound that other people laughed at them 
as nonsense and absurdity. 

But now kind Mr. Lindsey had entered the 
garden, breaking away from his two children, 
who still sent their shrill voices after him, be- 
20 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


seeching him to let the snow-child stay and 
enjoy herself in the cold west wind. As he 
approached, the snowbirds took to flight. The 
little white damsel, also, fled backward, shaking 
her head, as if to say, “ Pray, do not touch 
me ! ” and roguishly, as it appeared, leading 
him through the deepest of the snow. Once, 
the good man stumbled, and floundered down 
upon his face, so that, gathering himself up 
again, with the snow sticking to his rough pilot- 
cloth sack, he looked as white and wintry as a 
snow-image of the largest size. Some of the 
neighbors, meanwhile, seeing him from their 
windows, wondered what could possess poor 
Mr. Lindsey to be running about his garden in 
pursuit of a snowdrift, which the west wind was 
driving hither and thither ! At length, after a 
vast deal of trouble, he chased the little stran- 
ger into a corner, where she could not possibly 
escape him. His wife had been looking on, 
and, it being nearly twilight, was wonderstruck 
to observe how the snow-child gleamed and 
sparkled, and how she seemed to shed a glow 
all round about her ; and when driven into the 
corner, she positively glistened like a star ! It 
was a frosty kind of brightness, too, like that of 
an icicle in the moonlight. The wife thought 
it strange that good Mr. Lindsey should see 
nothing remarkable in the snow-child’s appear- 
ance. 


21 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


“ Come, you odd little thing ! ” cried the 
honest man, seizing her by the hand, c< I have 
caught you at last, and will make you com- 
fortable in spite of yourself. We will put a 
nice warm pair of worsted stockings on your 
frozen little feet, and you shall have a good 
thick shawl to wrap yourself in. Your poor 
white nose, I am afraid, is actually frost-bit- 
ten. But we will make it all right. Come 
along in.” 

And so, with a most benevolent smile on his 
sagacious visage, all purple as it was with the 
cold, this very well-meaning gentleman took 
the snow-child by the hand and led her towards 
the house. She followed him, droopingly and 
reluctant ; for all the glow and sparkle was gone 
out of her figure ; and whereas just before she 
had resembled a bright, frosty, star-gemmed 
evening, with a crimson gleam on the cold hori- 
zon, she now looked as dull and languid as a 
thaw. As kind Mr. Lindsey led her up the 
steps of the door, Violet and Peony looked into 
his face, — their eyes full of tears, which froze 
before they could run down their cheeks, — and 
again entreated him not to bring their snow- 
image into the house. 

“ Not bring her in ! ” exclaimed the kind- 
hearted man. “ Why, you are crazy, my little 
Violet ! — quite crazy, my small Peony ! She 
is so cold, already, that her hand has almost 
22 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


frozen mine, in spite of my thick gloves. 
Would you have her freeze to death ? ” 

H is wife, as he came up the steps, had been 
taking another long, earnest, almost awe-stricken 
gaze at the little white stranger. She hardly 
knew whether it was a dream or no ; but she 
could not help fancying that she saw the deli- 
cate print of Violet’s fingers on the child’s neck. 
It looked just as if, while Violet was shaping 
out the image, she had given it a gentle pat with 
her hand, and had neglected to smooth the im- 
pression quite away. 

cc After all, husband,” said the mother, recur- 
ring to her idea that the angels would be as 
much delighted to play with Violet and Peony 
as she herself was, — “ after all, she does look 
strangely like a snow-image ! I do believe she 
is made of snow ! ” 

A puff of the west wind blew against the 
snow-child, and again she sparkled like a 
star. 

cc Snow ! ” repeated good Mr. Lindsey, draw- 
ing the reluctant guest over his hospitable thresh- 
old. “ No wonder she looks like snow. She 
is half frozen, poor little thing ! But a good 
fire will put everything to rights ! ” 

Without further talk, and always with the 
same best intentions, this highly benevolent and 
common-sensible individual led the little white 
damsel — drooping, drooping, drooping, more 
23 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


and more — out of the frosty air, and into his 
comfortable parlor. A Heidenberg stove, filled 
to the brim with intensely burning anthracite, 
was sending a bright gleam through the isinglass 
of its iron door, and causing the vase of water 
on its top to fume and bubble with excitement. 
A warm, sultry smell was diffused throughout 
the room. A thermometer on the wall farthest 
from the stove stood at eighty degrees. The 
parlor was hung with red curtains, and covered 
with a red carpet, and looked just as warm as it 
felt. The difference betwixt the atmosphere 
here and the cold, wintry twilight out of doors, 
was like stepping at once from Nova Zembla to 
the hottest part of India, or from the North 
Pole into an oven. O, this was a fine place 
for the little white stranger ! 

The common-sensible man placed the snow- 
child on the hearth-rug, right in front of the 
hissing and fuming stove. 

“ Now she will be comfortable ! ” cried Mr. 
Lindsey, rubbing his hands and looking about 
him, with the pleasantest smile you ever saw. 
“ Make yourself at home, my child. ” 

Sad, sad and drooping, looked the little white 
maiden, as she stood on the hearth-rug, with 
the hot blast of the stove striking through her 
like a pestilence. Once, she threw a glance 
wistfully toward the windows, and caught a 
glimpse, through its red curtains, of the snow- 

24 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


covered roofs, and the stars glimmering frostily, 
and all the delicious intensity of the cold night. 
The bleak wind rattled the window-panes, as if 
it were summoning her to come forth. But 
there stood the snow-child, drooping, before 
the hot stove ! 

But the common-sensible man saw nothing 
amiss. 

“ Come, wife,” said he, cc let her have a pair 
of thick stockings and a woollen shawl or 
blanket directly ; and tell Dora to give her 
some warm supper as soon as the milk boils. 
You, Violet and Peony, amuse your little friend. 
She is out of spirits, you see, at finding herself 
in a strange place. For my part, I will go 
around among the neighbors, and find out 
where she belongs.” 

The mother, meanwhile, had gone in search 
of the shawl and stockings ; for her own view 
of the matter, however subtle and delicate, had 
given way, as it always did, to the stubborn 
materialism of her husband. Without heeding 
the remonstrances of his two children, who still 
kept murmuring that their little snow-sister did 
not love the warmth, good Mr. Lindsey took 
his departure, shutting the parlor door carefully 
behind him. Turning up the collar of his sack 
over his ears, he emerged from the house, and 
had barely reached the street gate, when he was 
recalled by the screams of Violet and Peony, 

25 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


and the rapping of a thimbled finger against the 
parlor window. 

“ Husband ! husband ! ” cried his wife, show- 
ing her horror-stricken face through the window- 
panes. “ There is no need of going for the 
child's parents ! ” 

“ We told you so, father ! ” screamed Violet 
and Peony, as he reentered the parlor. <c You 
would bring her in ; and now our poor — dear 
— beau-ti-ful little snow-sister is thawed ! ” 

And their own sweet little faces were already 
dissolved in tears ; so that their father, seeing 
what strange things occasionally happen in this 
every-day world, felt not a little anxious lest 
his children might be going to thaw too ! In 
the utmost perplexity, he demanded an expla- 
nation of his wife. She could only reply, that, 
being summoned to the parlor by the cries of 
Violet and Peony, she found no trace of the 
little white maiden, unless it were the remains 
of a heap of snow, which, while she was gazing 
at it, melted quite away upon the hearth-rug. 

“ And there you see all that is left of it ! ” 
added she, pointing to a pool of water in front 
of the stove. 

c< Yes, father," said Violet, looking reproach- 
fully at him through her tears, “ there is all that 
is left of our dear little snow-sister ! ” 

“ Naughty father ! ” cried Peony, stamping 
his foot, and — I shudder to say — shaking 
26 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


his little fist at the common-sensible man. “ We 
told you how it would be ! What for did you 
bring her in? ” 

And the Heidenberg stove, through the 
isinglass of its door, seemed to glare at good 
Mr. Lindsey, like a red-eyed demon, triumph- 
ing in the mischief which it had done ! 

This, you will observe, was one of those rare 
cases, which yet will occasionally happen, where 
common-sense finds itself at fault. The remark- 
able story of the snow-image, though to that 
sagacious class of people to whom good Mr. 
Lindsey belongs it may seem but a childish 
affair, is, nevertheless, capable of being moral- 
ized in various methods, greatly for their edifi- 
cation. One of its lessons, for instance, mighH 
be, that it behooves men, and especially men 
of benevolence, to consider well what they are 
about, and, before acting on their philanthropic 
purposes, to be quite sure that they comprehend 
the nature and all the relations of the business 
in hand. What has been established as an ele- 
ment of good to one being may prove absolute 
mischief to another ; even as the warmth of the 
parlor was proper enough for children of flesh 
and blood, like Violet and Peony, — though by 
no means very wholesome, even for them, — 
but involved nothing short of annihilation to 
the unfortunate snow-image. 

But, after all, there is no teaching anything 
27 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


to wise men of good Mr. Lindsey’s stamp. 
They know everything, — O, to be sure ! — 
everything that has been, and everything that 
is, and everything that, by any future possibility, 
can be. And, should some phenomenon of 
nature or Providence transcend their system, 
they will not recognize it, even if it come to 
pass under their very noses. 

“ Wife,” said Mr. Lindsey, after a fit of 
silence, cc see what a quantity of snow the chil- 
dren have brought in on their feet ! It has 
made quite a puddle here before the stove. 
Pray tell Dora to bring some towels and sop 
it up ! ” 


28 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 


[In American Not e-Books, under date of 1840, occurs 
this suggestion : “ The semblance of a human face to be 
formed on the side of a mountain, or in the fracture of a 
small stone, by a lusus natures. The face is an object of 
curiosity for years or centuries, and by and by a boy is born, 
whose features gradually assume the aspect of that portrait. 
At some critical juncture, the resemblance is found to be per- 
fect. A prophecy may be connected.”] 

O NE afternoon, when the sun was going 
down, a mother and her little boy sat 
at the door of their cottage, talking 
about the Great Stone Face. They had but to 
lift their eyes, and there it was plainly to be 
seen, though miles away, with the sunshine 
brightening all its features. 

And what was the Great Stone Face ? 
Embosomed amongst a family of lofty moun- 
tains, there was a valley so spacious that it con- 
tained many thousand inhabitants. Some of 
these good people dwelt in log huts, with the 
black forest all around them, on the steep and 
difficult hillsides. Others had their homes in 
comfortable farmhouses, and cultivated the rich 
soil on the gentle slopes or level surfaces of the 
valley. Others, again, were congregated into 
29 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


populous villages, where some wild, highland 
rivulet, tumbling down from its birthplace in 
the upper mountain region, had been caught 
and tamed by human cunning, and compelled 
to turn the machinery of cotton factories. The 
inhabitants of this valley, in short, were numer- 
ous, and of many modes of life. But all of 
them, grown people and children, had a kind 
of familiarity with the Great Stone Face, al- 
though some possessed the gift of distinguish- 
ing this grand natural phenomenon more per- 
fectly than many of their neighbors. 

The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of 
Nature in her mood of majestic playfulness, 
formed on the perpendicular side of a mountain 
by some immense rocks, which had been thrown 
together in such a position as, when viewed at 
a proper distance, precisely to resemble the 
features of the human countenance. It seemed 
as if an enormous giant, or a Titan, had sculp- 
tured his own likeness on the precipice. There 
was the broad arch of the forehead, a hundred 
feet in height ; the nose, with its long bridge ; 
and the vast lips, which, if they could have 
spoken, would have rolled their thunder accents 
from one end of the valley to the other. True 
it is, that if the spectator approached too near, 
he lost the outline of the gigantic visage, and 
could discern only a heap of ponderous and 
gigantic rocks, piled in chaotic ruin one upon 
30 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 


another. Retracing his steps, however, the won- 
drous features would again be seen ; and the 
farther he withdrew from them, the more like a 
human face, with all its original divinity intact, 
did they appear ; until, as it grew dim in the 
distance, with the clouds and glorified vapor of 
the mountains clustering about it, the Great 
Stone Face seemed positively to be alive. 

It was a happy lot for children to grow up to 
v manhood or womanhood with the Great Stone 
Face before their eyes, for all the features were 
noble, and the expression was at once grand and 
sweet, as if it were the glow of a vast, warm 
heart, that embraced all mankind in its affec- 
tions, and had room for more. It was an edu- 
cation only to look at it. According to the 
belief of many people, the valley owed much of 
its fertility to this benign aspect that was con- 
tinually beaming over it, illuminating the clouds, 
and infusing its tenderness into the sunshine. 

As we began with saying, a mother and her 
little boy sat at their cottage door, gazing at the 
Great Stone Face and talking about it. The 
child’s name was Ernest. 

“ Mother,” said he, while the Titanic visage 
smiled on him, “ I wish that it could speak, for 
it looks so very kindly that its voice must needs 
be pleasant. If I were to see a man with such 
a face, I should love him dearly.” 

“ If an old prophecy should come to pass,” 

3 1 


f 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


answered his mother, “ we may see a man, some 
time or other, with exactly such a face as that.” 

“What prophecy do you mean, dear mo- 
ther ? ” eagerly inquired Ernest. “ Pray tell me 
all about it ! ” 

So his mother told him a story that her own 
mother had told to her, when she herself was 
younger than little Ernest ; a story, not of 
things that were past, but of what was yet to 
come ; a story, nevertheless, so very old, that 
even the Indians, who formerly inhabited this 
valley, had heard it from their forefathers, to 
whom, as they affirmed, it had been murmured 
by the mountain streams, and whispered by the 
wind among the tree-tops. The purport was, 
that, at some future day, a child should be born 
hereabouts, who was destined to become the 
greatest and noblest personage of his time, and 
whose countenance, in mankind, should bear an 
exact resemblance to the Great Stone Face. 
Not a few old-fashioned people, and young 
ones likewise, in the ardor of their hopes, still 
cherished an enduring faith in this old prophecy. 
But others, who had seen more of the world, 
had watched and waited till they were weary, 
and had beheld no man with such a face, nor 
any man that proved to be much greater or no- 
bler than his neighbors, concluded it to be no- 
thing but an idle tale. At all events, the great 
man of the prophecy had not yet appeared. 

32 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 


cc O mother, dear mother ! ” cried Ernest, 
clapping his hands above his head, “ I do hope 
that I shall live to see him ! ” 

His mother was an affectionate and thought- 
ful woman, and felt that it was wisest not to dis- 
courage the generous hopes of her little boy. 
So she only said to him, “ Perhaps you may.” 

And Ernest never forgot the story that his 
mother told him. It was always in his mind, 
whenever he looked upon the Great Stone Face. 
He spent his childhood in the log cottage where 
he was born, and was dutiful to his mother, and 
helpful to her in many things, assisting her 
much with his little hands, and more! with his 
loving heart. In this manner, from a happy yet 
often pensive child, he grew up to be a mild, 
quiet, unobtrusive boy, and sun-browned with 
labor in the fields, but with more intelligence 
brightening his aspect than is seen in many lads 
who have been taught at famous schools. Yet 
Ernest had had no teacher, save only that the 
Great Stone Face became one to him. When 
the toil of the day was over, he would gaze at it 
for hours, until he began to imagine that those 
vast features recognized him, and gave him a 
smile of kindness and encouragement, respon- 
sive to his own look of veneration. We must 
not take upon us to affirm that this was a mis- 
take, although the Face may have looked no 
more kindly at Ernest than at all the world be- 
33 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


sides. But the secret was that the boy’s tender 
and confiding simplicity discerned what other 
people could not see ; and thus the love, which 
was meant for all, became his peculiar portion. 

About this time there went a rumor through- 
out the valley, that the great man, foretold from 
ages long ago, who was to bear a resemblance to 
the Great Stone Face, had appeared at last. It 
seems that, many years before, a young man had 
migrated from the valley and settled at a dis- 
tant seaport, where, after getting together a little 
money, he had set up as a shopkeeper. His 
name — but I could never learn whether it was 
his real one or a nickname that had grown out 
of his habits and success in life — was Gather- 
gold. Being shrewd and active, and endowed 
by Providence with that inscrutable faculty 
which develops itself in what the world calls 
luck, he became an exceedingly rich merchant, 
and owner of a whole fleet of bulky bottomed 
ships. All the countries of the globe appeared 
to join hands for the mere purpose of adding 
heap after heap to the mountainous accumula- 
tion of this one man’s wealth. The cold re- 
gions of the north, almost within the gloom and 
shadow of the Arctic Circle, sent him their tri- 
bute in the shape of furs ; hot Africa sifted for 
him the golden sands of her rivers, and gathered 
up the ivory tusks of her great elephants out of 
the forests ; the East came bringing him the 
34 








The toil of the day was over 


































































































































vh Yvc>\ vH! 























































* 




































































THE GREAT STONE FACE 


rich shawls, and spices, and teas, and the efful- 
gence of diamonds, and the gleaming purity of 
large pearls. The ocean, not to be behindhand 
with the earth, yielded up her mighty whales, 
that Mr. Gathergold might sell their oil, and 
make a profit on it. Be the original commod- 
ity what it might, it was gold within his grasp. 
It might be said of him, as of Midas in the 
fable, that whatever he touched with his finger 
immediately glistened, and grew yellow, and was 
changed at once into sterling metal, or, which 
suited him still better, into piles of coin. And, 
when Mr. Gathergold had become so very rich 
that it would have taken him a hundred years 
only to count his wealth, he bethought himself 
of his native valley, and resolved to go back 
thither, and end his days where he was born. 
With this purpose in view, he sent a skilful 
architect to build him such a palace as should 
be fit for a man of his vast wealth to live in. 

As I have said above, it had already been 
rumored in the valley that Mr. Gathergold had 
turned out to be the prophetic personage so 
long and vainly looked for, and that his visage 
was the perfect and undeniable similitude of the 
Great Stone Face. People were the more ready 
to believe that this must needs be the fact, when 
they beheld the splendid edifice that rose, as if 
by enchantment, on the site of his father’s old 
weather-beaten farmhouse. The exterior was 
35 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

of marble, so dazzlingly white that it seemed as 
though the whole structure might melt away in 
the sunshine, like those humbler ones which 
Mr. Gathergold, in his young play-days, before 
his fingers were gifted with the touch of trans- 
mutation, had been accustomed to build of snow. 
It had a richly ornamented portico, supported 
by tall pillars, beneath which was a lofty door, 
studded with silver knobs, and made of a kind 
of variegated wood that had been brought from 
beyond the sea. The windows, from the floor 
to the ceiling of each stately apartment, were 
composed, respectively, of but one enormous 
pane of glass, so transparently pure that it was 
said to be a finer medium than even the vacant 
atmosphere. Hardly anybody had been per- 
mitted to see the interior of this palace ; but it 
was reported, and with good semblance of truth, 
to be far more gorgeous than the outside, inso- 
much that whatever was iron or brass in other 
houses was silver or gold in this ; and Mr. Ga- 
thergold’s bedchamber, especially, made such 
a glittering appearance that no ordinary man 
would have been able to close his eyes there. 
But, on the other hand, Mr. Gathergold was 
now so inured to wealth, that perhaps he could 
not have closed his eyes unless where the gleam 
of it was certain to find its way beneath his eye- 
lids. 

In due time, the mansion was finished ; next 
3b 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 


came the upholsterers, with magnificent furni- 
ture ; then, a whole troop of black and white 
servants, the harbingers of Mr. Gathergold, 
who, in his own majestic person, was expected 
to arrive at sunset. Our friend Ernest, mean- 
while, had been deeply stirred by the idea that 
the great man, the noble man, the man of pro- 
phecy, after so many ages of delay, was at 
length to be made manifest to his native valley. 
He knew, boy as he was, that there were a 
thousand ways in which Mr. Gathergold, with 
his vast wealth, might transform himself into an 
angel of beneficence, and assume a control over 
human affairs as wide and benignant as the 
smile of the Great Stone Face. Full of faith 
and hope, Ernest doubted not that what the 
people said was true, and that now he was to 
behold the living likeness of those wondrous 
features on the mountain-side. While the boy 
was still gazing up the valley, and fancying, as 
he always did, that the Great Stone Face re- 
turned his gaze and looked kindly at him, the 
rumbling of wheels was heard, approaching 
swiftly along the winding road. 

“ Here he comes ! ” cried a group of people 
who were assembled to witness the arrival. 
“ Here comes the great Mr. Gathergold ! ” 

A carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed 
round the turn of the road. Within it, thrust 
partly out of the window, appeared the physi- 
37 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


ognomy of the old man, with a skin as yellow 
as if his own Midas hand had transmuted it. 
He had a low forehead, small, sharp eyes, puck- 
ered about with innumerable wrinkles, and very 
thin lips, which he made still thinner by press- 
ing them forcibly together. 

“ The very image of the Great Stone Face ! ” 
shouted the people. “ Sure enough, the old 
prophecy is true ; and here we have the great 
man come at last ! ” 

And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they 
seemed actually to believe that here was the 
likeness which they spoke of. By the roadside 
there chanced to be an old beggar woman and 
two little beggar children, stragglers from some 
far-off region, who, as the carriage rolled on- 
ward, held out their hands and lifted up their 
doleful voices, most piteously beseeching char- 
ity. A yellow claw — the very same that had 
clawed together so much wealth — poked itself 
out of the coach window, and dropt some cop- 
per coins upon the ground ; so that, though the 
great man’s name seems to have been Gather- 
gold, he might just as suitably have been nick- 
named Scattercopper. Still, nevertheless, with 
an earnest shout, and evidently with as much 
good faith as ever, the people bellowed, — 

“He is the very image of the Great Stone 
Face ! ” 

But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled 
38 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 


shrewdness of that sordid visage, and gazed up 
the valley, where, amid a gathering mist, gilded 
by the last sunbeams, he could still distinguish 
those glorious features which had impressed 
themselves into his soul. Their aspect cheered 
him. What did the benign lips seem to say ? 

“He will come ! Fear not, Ernest ; the 
man will come ! ” 

The years went on, and Ernest ceased to be 
a boy. He had grown to be a young man now. 
He attracted little notice from the other inhabi- 
tants of the valley ; for they saw nothing remark- 
able in his way of life, save that, when the labor 
of the day was over, he still loved to go apart 
and gaze and meditate upon the Great Stone 
Face. According to their idea of the matter, it 
was a folly, indeed, but pardonable, inasmuch 
as Ernest was industrious, kind, and neighborly, 
and neglected no duty for the sake of indulging 
this idle habit. They knew not that the Great 
Stone Face had become a teacher to him, and 
that the sentiment which was expressed in it 
would enlarge the young man’s heart, and fill it 
with wider and deeper sympathies than other 
hearts. They knew not that thence would 
come a better wisdom than could be learned 
from books, and a better life than could be 
moulded on the defaced example of other hu- 
man lives. Neither did Ernest know that the 
thoughts and affections which came to him so 
39 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


naturally, in the fields and at the fireside, and 
wherever he communed with himself, were of a 
higher tone than those which all men shared 
with him. A simple soul, — simple as when 
his mother first taught him the old prophecy, 
— he beheld the marvellous features beaming 
adown the valley, and still wondered that their 
human counterpart was so long in making his 
appearance. 

By this time poor Mr. Gathergold was dead 
and buried ; and the oddest part of the matter 
was, that his wealth, which was the body and 
spirit of his existence, had disappeared before 
his death, leaving nothing of him but a living 
skeleton, covered over with a wrinkled, yellow 
skin. Since the melting away of his gold, it 
had been very generally conceded that there was 
no such striking resemblance, after all, betwixt 
the ignoble features of the ruined merchant and 
that majestic face upon the mountain-side. So 
the people ceased to honor him during his life- 
time, and quietly consigned him to forgetful- 
ness after his decease. Once in a while, it is 
true, his memory was brought up in connection 
with the magnificent palace which he had built, 
and which had long ago been turned into a 
hotel for the accommodation of strangers, mul- 
titudes of whom came, every summer, to visit 
that famous natural curiosity, the Great Stone 
Face. Thus, Mr. Gathergold being discredited 
40 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 


and thrown into the shade, the man of prophecy 
was yet to come. 

It so happened that a native-born son of the 
valley, many years before, had enlisted as a sol- 
dier, and, after a great deal of hard fighting, had 
now become an illustrious commander. What- 
ever he may be called in history, he was known 
in camps and on the battlefield under the nick- 
name of Old Blood-and-Thunder. This war- 
worn veteran, being now infirm with age and 
wounds, and weary of the turmoil of a military 
life, and of the roll of the drum and the clangor 
of the trumpet, that had so long been ringing 
in his ears, had lately signified a purpose of 
returning to his native valley, hoping to find 
repose where he remembered to have left it. 
The inhabitants, his old neighbors and their 
grown-up children, were resolved to welcome 
the renowned warrior with a salute of cannon 
and a public dinner ; and all the more enthusi- 
astically, it being affirmed that now, at last, the 
likeness of the Great Stone Face had actually 
appeared. An aid-de-camp of Old Blood-and- 
Thunder, travelling through the valley, was 
said to have been struck with the resemblance. 
Moreover the schoolmates and early acquaint- 
ances of the general were ready to testify, on 
oath, that, to the best of their recollection, the 
aforesaid general had been exceedingly like the 
majestic image, even when a boy, only that the 
4i 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


idea had never occurred to them at that period. 
Great, therefore, was the excitement through- 
out the valley ; and many people, who had 
never once thought of glancing at the Great 
Stone Face for years before, now spent their 
time in gazing at it, for the sake of knowing ex- 
actly how General Blood-and-Thunder looked. 

On the day of the great festival, Ernest, with 
all the other people of the valley, left their work, 
and proceeded to the spot where the sylvan 
banquet was prepared. As he approached, the 
loud voice of the Rev. Dr. Battleblast was 
heard, beseeching a blessing on the good things 
set before them, and on the distinguished friend 
of peace in whose honor they were assembled. 
The tables were arranged in a cleared space of 
the woods, shut in by the surrounding trees, 
except where a vista opened eastward, and 
afforded a distant view of the Great Stone Face. 
Over the general’s chair, which was a relic from 
the home of Washington, there was an arch of 
verdant boughs, with the laurel profusely inter- 
mixed, and surmounted by his country’s banner, 
beneath which he had won his victories. Our 
friend Ernest raised himself on his tiptoes, in 
hopes to get a glimpse of the celebrated guest ; 
but there was a mighty crowd about the tables 
anxious to hear the toasts and speeches, and to 
catch any word that might fall from the general 
in reply ; and a volunteer company, doing duty 
42 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 


as a guard, pricked ruthlessly with their bay- 
onets at any particularly quiet person among 
the throng. So Ernest, being of an unobtru- 
sive character, was thrust quite into the back- 
ground, where he could see no more of Old 
Blood-and-Thunder’s physiognomy than if it 
had been still blazing on the battlefield. To 
console himself, he turned towards the Great 
Stone Face, which, like a faithful and long-re- 
membered friend, looked back and smiled upon 
him through the vista of the forest. Meantime, 
however, he could overhear the remarks of 
various individuals, who were comparing the 
features of the hero with the face on the dis- 
tant mountain-side. 

cc ’T is the same face, to a hair ! ” cried one 
man, cutting a caper for joy. 

“ Wonderfully like, that's a fact ! ” responded 
another. 

“ Like ! why, I call it Old Blood-and-Thun- 
der himself, in a monstrous looking-glass ! ” 
cried a third. “ And why not ? He’s the 
greatest man of this or any other age, beyond a 
doubt." 

And then all three of the speakers gave a 
great shout, which communicated electricity to 
the crowd, and called forth a roar from a thou- 
sand voices, that went reverberating for miles 
among the mountains, until you might have 
supposed that the Great Stone Face had poured 
43 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


its thunder breath into the cry. All these com- 
ments, and this vast enthusiasm, served the 
more to interest our friend ; nor did he think 
of questioning that now, at length, the moun- 
tain visage had found its human counterpart. 
It is true, Ernest had imagined that this long- 
looked-for personage would appear in the char- 
acter of a man of peace, uttering wisdom, and 
doing good, and making people happy. But, 
taking an habitual breadth of view, with all his 
simplicity, he contended that Providence should 
choose its own method of blessing mankind, 
and could conceive that this great end might be 
effected even by a warrior and a bloody sword, 
should inscrutable wisdom see fit to order mat- 
ters so. 

“ The general ! the general ! ” was now the 
cry. “ Hush ! silence ! Old Blood-and-Thun- 
der ’s going to make a speech.” 

Even so ; for, the cloth being removed, the 
general’s health had been drunk, amid shouts 
of applause, and he now stood upon his feet to 
thank the company. Ernest saw him. There 
he was, over the shoulders of the crowd, from 
the two glittering epaulets and embroidered 
collar upward, beneath the arch of green boughs 
with interwined laurel, and the banner drooping 
as if to shade his brow ! And there, too, visi- 
ble in the same glance, through the vista of the 
forest, appeared the Great Stone Face ! And 
44 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 


was there, indeed, such a resemblance as the 
crowd had testified ? Alas, Ernest could not 
recognize it ! He beheld a war - worn and 
weather-beaten countenance, full of energy and 
expressive of an iron will ; but the gentle wis- 
dom, the deep, broad, tender sympathies, were 
altogether wanting in Old Blood-and-Thunder’s 
visage ; and even if the Great Stone Face had 
assumed his look of stern command, the milder 
traits would still have tempered it. 

“ This is not the man of prophecy,” sighed 
Ernest to himself, as he made his way out of 
the throng. “ And must the world wait longer 
yet ? ” 

The mists had congregated about the distant 
mountain-side, and there were seen the grand 
and awful features of the Great Stone Face, 
awful but benignant, as if a mighty angel were 
sitting among the hills, and enrobing himself 
in a cloud vesture of gold and purple. As he 
looked, Ernest could hardly believe but that a 
smile beamed over the whole visage, with a 
radiance still brightening, although without mo- 
tion of the lips. It was probably the effect of 
the western sunshine, melting through the thinly 
diffused vapors that had swept between him and 
the object that he gazed at. But — as it always 
did — the aspect of his marvellous friend made 
Ernest as hopeful as if he had never hoped in 
vain. 


45 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


“ Fear not, Ernest,” said his heart, even as 
if the Great Face were whispering him, — “fear 
not, Ernest ; he will come.” 

More years sped swiftly and tranquilly away. 
Ernest still dwelt in his native valley, and was 
now a man of middle age. By imperceptible 
degrees, he had become known among the peo- 
ple. Now, as heretofore, he labored for his 
bread, and was the same simple-hearted man 
that he had always been. But he had thought 
and felt so much, he had given so many of the 
best hours of his life to unworldly hopes for 
some great good to mankind, that it seemed as 
though he had been talking with the angels, 
and had imbibed a portion of their wisdom un- 
awares. It was visible in the calm and well- 
considered beneficence of his daily life, the quiet 
stream of which had made a wide green margin 
all along its course. Not a day passed by, that 
the world was not the better because this man, 
humble as he was, had lived. He never stepped 
aside from his own path, yet would always reach 
a blessing to his neighbor. Almost involunta- 
rily, too, he had become a preacher. The pure 
and high simplicity of his thought, which, as 
one of its manifestations, took shape in the 
good deeds that dropped silently from his hand, 
flowed also forth in speech. He uttered truths 
that wrought upon and moulded the lives of 
those who heard him. His auditors, it may 
46 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 


be, never suspected that Ernest, their own 
neighbor and familiar friend, was more than an 
ordinary man ; least of all did Ernest himself 
suspect it ; but, inevitably as the murmur of a 
rivulet, came thoughts out of his mouth that 
no other human lips had spoken. 

When the people's minds had had a little 
time to cool, they were ready enough to ac- 
knowledge their mistake in imagining a similar- 
ity between General Blood-and-Thunder's tru- 
culent physiognomy and the benign visage on 
the mountain-side. But now, again, there were 
reports and many paragraphs in the newspapers, 
affirming that the likeness of the Great Stone 
Face had appeared upon the broad shoulders 
of a certain eminent statesman. He, like Mr. 
Gathergold and Old Blood-and-Thunder, was 
a native of the valley, but had left it in his early 
days, and taken up the trades of law and poli- 
tics. Instead of the rich man's wealth and the 
warrior's sword, he had but a tongue, and it 
was mightier than both together. So wonder- 
fully eloquent was he, that whatever he might 
choose to say, his auditors had no choice but to 
believe him ; wrong looked like right, and right 
like wrong ; for when it pleased him, he could 
make a kind of illuminated fog with his mere 
breath, and obscure the natural daylight with it. 
His tongue, indeed, was a magic instrument: 
sometimes it rumbled like the thunder ; some- 
47 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


times it warbled like the sweetest music. It was 
the blast of war, — the song of peace; and it 
seemed to have a heart in it, when there was no 
such matter. In good truth, he was a wondrous 
man ; and when his tongue had acquired him 
all other imaginable success, — when it had 
been heard in halls of state, and in the courts 
of princes and potentates, — after it had made 
him known all over the world, even as a voice 
crying from shore to shore, — it finally per- 
suaded his countrymen to select him for the 
Presidency. Before this time, — indeed, as soon 
as he began to grow celebrated, — his admirers 
had found out the resemblance between him 
and the Great Stone Face; and so much were 
they struck by it, that throughout the country 
this distinguished gentleman was known by the 
name of Old Stony Phiz. The phrase was con- 
sidered as giving a highly favorable aspect to 
his political prospects ; for, as is likewise the 
case with the Popedom, nobody ever becomes 
President without taking a name other than his 
own. 

While his friends were doing their best to 
make him President, Old Stony Phiz, as he was 
called, set out on a visit to the valley where he 
was born. Of course, he had no other object 
than to shake hands with his fellow citizens, and 
neither thought nor cared about any effect which 
his progress through the country might have 
48 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 


upon the election. Magnificent preparations 
were made to receive the illustrious statesman ; 
a cavalcade of horsemen set forth to meet him 
at the boundary line of the State, and all the 
people left their business and gathered along 
the wayside to see him pass. Among these was 
Ernest. Though more than once disappointed, 
as we have seen, he had such a hopeful and 
confiding nature, that he was always ready to 
believe in whatever seemed beautiful and good. 
He kept his heart continually open, and thus 
was sure to catch the blessing from on high 
when it should come. So now again, as buoy- 
antly as ever, he went forth to behold the like- 
ness of the Great Stone Face. 

The cavalcade came prancing along the road, 
with a great clattering of hoofs and a mighty 
cloud of dust, which rose up so dense and high 
that the visage of the mountain-side was com- 
pletely hidden from Ernest’s eyes. All the 
great men of the neighborhood were there on 
horseback: militia officers in uniform; the mem- 
bers of Congress ; the sheriff* of the county ; the 
editors of newspapers ; and many a farmer, 
too, had mounted his patient steed, with his 
Sunday coat upon his back. It really was a 
very brilliant spectacle, especially as there were 
numerous banners flaunting over the cavalcade, 
on some of which were gorgeous portraits of the 
illustrious statesman and the Great Stone Face, 
49 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


smiling familiarly at one another, like two bro- 
thers. If the pictures were to be trusted, the 
mutual resemblance, it must be confessed, was 
marvellous. We must not forget to mention 
that there was a band of music, which made the 
echoes of the mountains ring and reverberate 
with the loud triumph of its strains ; so that airy 
and soul-thrilling melodies broke out among all 
the heights and hollows, as if every nook of his 
native valley had found a voice to welcome the 
distinguished guest. But the grandest effect was 
when the far-off mountain precipice flung back 
the music ; for then the Great Stone Face itself 
seemed to be swelling the triumphant chorus, 
in acknowledgment that, at length, the man of 
prophecy was come. 

All this while the people were throwing up 
their hats and shouting, with enthusiasm so 
contagious that the heart of Ernest kindled up, 
and he likewise threw up his hat, and shouted, 
as loudly as the loudest, cc Huzza for the great 
man ! Huzza for Old Stony Phiz ! ” But as 
yet he had not seen him. 

“ Here he is now ! ” cried those who stood 
near Ernest. “ There! There! Look at Old 
Stony Phiz and then at the Old Man of the 
Mountain, and see if they are not as like as 
two twin brothers ! ” 

In the midst of all this gallant array came an 
50 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 


open barouche, drawn by four white horses ; 
and in the barouche, with his massive head 
uncovered, sat the illustrious statesman, Old 
Stony Phiz himself. 

“ Confess it,” said one of Ernest's neighbors 
to him, “ the Great Stone Face has met its 
match at last ! ” 

Now, it must be owned that, at his first 
glimpse of the countenance which was bowing 
and smiling from the barouche, Ernest did fancy 
that there was a resemblance between it and the 
old familiar face upon the mountain-side. The 
brow, with its massive depth and loftiness, and 
all the other features, indeed, were boldly and 
strongly hewn, as if in emulation of a more than 
heroic, of a Titanic model. But the sublimity 
and stateliness, the grand expression of a divine 
sympathy, that illuminated the mountain visage 
and etherealized its ponderous granite substance 
into spirit, might here be sought in vain. Some- 
thing had been originally left out, or had de- 
parted. And therefore the marvellously gifted 
statesman had always a weary gloom in the 
deep caverns of his eyes, as of a child that has 
outgrown its playthings or a man of mighty fac- 
ulties and little aims, whose life, with all its high 
performances, was vague and empty, because no 
high purpose had endowed it with reality. 

Still, Ernest's neighbor was thrusting his 
5i 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

elbow into his side, and pressing him for an 
answer. 

“ Confess ! confess ! Is not he the very pic- 
ture of your Old Man of the Mountain ? ” 

“No!” said Ernest bluntly, “ I see little or 
no likeness.” 

“ Then so much the worse for the Great 
Stone Face ! ” answered his neighbor ; and 
again he set up a shout for Old Stony Phiz. 

But Ernest turned away, melancholy and 
almost despondent ; for this was the saddest of 
his disappointments, to behold a man who 
might have fulfilled the prophecy, and had not 
willed to do so. Meantime, the cavalcade, the 
banners, the music, and the barouches swept 
past him, with the vociferous crowd in the rear, 
leaving the dust to settle down, and the Great 
Stone Face to be revealed again, with the gran- 
deur that it had worn for untold centuries. 

“ Lo, here I am, Ernest ! ” the benign lips 
seemed to say. “I have waited longer than 
thou, and am not yet weary. Fear not ; the 
man will come.” 

The years hurried onward, treading in their 
haste on one another's heels. And now they 
began to bring white hairs, and scatter them 
over the head of Ernest ; they made reverend 
wrinkles across his forehead, and furrows in his 
cheeks. He was an aged man. But not in vain 
had he grown old : more than the white hairs 
52 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 


on his head were the sage thoughts in his mind ; 
his wrinkles and furrows were inscriptions that 
Time had graved, and in which he had written 
legends of wisdom that had been tested by the 
tenor of a life. And Ernest had ceased to be 
obscure. Unsought for, undesired, had come 
the fame which so many seek, and made him 
known in the great world, beyond the limits 
of the valley in which he had dwelt so quietly. 
College professors, and even the active men of 
cities, came from far to see and converse with 
Ernest ; for the report had gone abroad that 
this simple husbandman had ideas unlike those 
of other men, not gained from books, but of a 
higher tone, — a tranquil and familiar majesty, 
as if he had been talking with the angels as his 
daily friends. Whether it were sage, statesman, 
or philanthropist, Ernest received these visitors 
with the gentle sincerity that had characterized 
him from boyhood, and spoke freely with them 
of whatever came uppermost or lay deepest in 
his heart or their own. While they talked to- 
gether, his face would kindle, unawares, and 
shine upon them, as with a mild evening light. 
Pensive with the fulness of such discourse, his 
guests took leave and went their way ; and pass- 
ing up the valley, paused to look at the Great 
Stone Face, imagining that they had seen its 
likeness in a human countenance, but could not 
remember where. 


53 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

While Ernest had been growing up and grow- 
ing old, a bountiful Providence had granted a 
new poet to this earth. He, likewise, was a na- 
tive of the valley, but had spent the greater part 
of his life at a distance from that romantic 
region, pouring out his sweet music amid the 
bustle and din of cities. Often, however, did 
the mountains which had been familiar to him 
in his childhood lift their snowy peaks into the 
clear atmosphere of his poetry. Neither was 
the Great Stone Face forgotten, for the poet 
had celebrated it in an ode, which was grand 
enough to have been uttered by its own majes- 
tic lips. This man of genius, we may say, had 
come down from heaven with wonderful endow- 
ments. If he sang of a mountain, the eyes of 
all mankind beheld a mightier grandeur repos- 
ing on its breast, or soaring to its summit, than 
had before been seen there. If his theme were 
a lovely lake, a celestial smile had now been 
thrown over it, to gleam forever on its surface. 
If it were the vast old sea, even the deep im- 
mensity of its dread bosom seemed to swell the 
higher, as if moved by the emotions of the song. 
Thus the world assumed another and a better 
aspect from the hour that the poet blessed it 
with his happy eyes. The Creator had bestowed 
him, as the last best touch to his own handi- 
work. Creation was not finished till the poet 
came to interpret, and so complete it. 

54 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 


The effect was no less high and beautiful, 
when his human brethren were the subject of 
his verse. The man or woman, sordid with the 
common dust of life, who crossed his daily path, 
and the little child who played in it, were glori- 
fied if he beheld them in his mood of poetic 
faith. He showed the golden links of the great 
chain that intertwined them with an angelic 
kindred ; he brought out the hidden traits of a 
celestial birth that made them worthy of such 
kin. Some, indeed, there were who thought 
to show the soundness of their judgment by 
affirming that all the beauty and dignity of ' the 
natural world existed only in the poet’s fancy. 
Let such men speak for themselves, who un- 
doubtedly appear to have been spawned forth 
by Nature with a contemptuous bitterness; she 
having plastered them up out of her refuse 
stuff, after all the swine were made. As re- 
spects all things else, the poet’s ideal was the 
truest truth. 

The songs of this poet found their way to 
Ernest. He read them after his customary toil, 
seated on the bench before his cottage door, 
where for such a length of time he had filled 
his repose with thought by gazing at the Great 
Stone Face. And now as he read stanzas that 
caused the soul to thrill within him, he lifted his 
eyes to the vast countenance beaming on him 
so benignantly. 


55 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


“ O majestic friend,” he murmured, address- 
ing the Great Stone Face, “is not this man 
worthy to resemble thee ? ” 

The Face seemed to smile, but answered not 
a word. 

Now it happened that the poet, though he 
dwelt so far away, had not only heard of Er- 
nest, but had meditated much upon his charac- 
ter, until he deemed nothing so desirable as to 
meet this man, whose untaught wisdom walked 
hand in hand with the noble simplicity of his 
life. One summer morning, therefore, he took 
passage by the railroad, and, in the decline of 
the afternoon, alighted from the cars at no great 
distance from Ernest’s cottage. The great 
hotel, which had formerly been the palace of 
Mr. Gathergold, was close at hand, but the 
poet, with his carpet-bag on his arm, inquired at 
once where Ernest dwelt, and was resolved to 
be accepted as his guest. 

Approaching the door, he there found the 
good old man, holding a volume in his hand, 
which alternately he read, and then, with a fin- 
ger between the leaves, looked lovingly at the 
Great Stone Face. 

“ Good evening,” said the poet. “ Can you 
give a traveller a night’s lodging ? ” 

“ Willingly,” answered Ernest ; and then he 
added, smiling, “ Methinks I never saw the 
56 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 

Great Stone Face look so hospitably at a stran- 
ger.” 

The poet sat down on the bench beside him, 
and he and Ernest talked together. Often had 
the poet held intercourse with the wittiest and 
the wisest, but never before with a man like 
Ernest, whose thoughts and feelings gushed up 
with such a natural freedom, and who made 
great truths so familiar by his simple utterance 
of them. Angels, as had been so often said, 
seemed to have wrought with him at his labor 
in the fields ; angels seemed to have sat with 
him by the fireside ; and, dwelling with angels 
as friend with friends, he had imbibed the sub- 
limity of their ideas, and imbued it with the 
sweet and lowly charm of household words. So 
thought the poet. And Ernest, on the other 
hand, was moved and agitated by the living im- 
ages which the poet flung out of his mind, and 
which peopled all the air about the cottage 
door with shapes of beauty, both gay and pen- 
sive. The sympathies of these two men in- 
structed them with a profounder sense than 
either could have attained alone. Their minds 
accorded into one strain, and made delightful 
music which neither of them could have claimed 
as all his own, nor distinguished his own share 
from the other’s. They led one another, as it 
were, into a high pavilion of their thoughts, so 
remote, and hitherto so dim, that they had 
57 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

never entered it before, and so beautiful that 
they desired to be there always. 

As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined 
that the Great Stone Face was bending forward 
to listen too. He gazed earnestly into the 
poet’s glowing eyes. 

“ Who are you, my strangely gifted guest ? ” 
he said. 

The poet laid his finger on the volume that 
Ernest had been reading. 

“ You have read these poems,” said he. 
“You know me, then, — for I wrote them.” 

Again, and still more earnestly than before, 
Ernest examined the poet’s features ; then 
turned towards the Great Stone Face ; then 
back, with an uncertain aspect, to his guest. 
But his countenance fell ; he shook his head, 
and sighed. 

“ Wherefore are you sad ? ” inquired the 
poet. 

“ Because,” replied Ernest, “ all through life 
I have awaited the fulfilment of a prophecy ; 
and, when I read these poems, I hoped that it 
might be fulfilled in you.” 

“You hoped,” answered the poet, faintly 
smiling, “ to find in me the likeness of the Great 
Stone Face. And you are disappointed, as for- 
merly with Mr. Gathergold, and Old Blood-and- 
Thunder, and Old Stony Phiz. Yes, Ernest, 
it is my doom. You must add my name to 
58 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 


the illustrious three, and record another failure 
of your hopes. For — in shame and sadness 
do I speak it, Ernest — I am not worthy to 
be typified by yonder benign and majestic 
image.” 

“ And why ? ” asked Ernest. He pointed 
to the volume. “ Are not those thoughts 
divine ? ” 

“ They have a strain of the Divinity,” replied 
the poet. “You can hear in them the far-off 
echo of a heavenly song. But my life, dear 
Ernest, has not corresponded with my thought. 
I have had grand dreams, but they have been 
only dreams, because I have lived — and that, 
too, by my own choice — among poor and mean 
realities. Sometimes even — shall I dare to say 
it ? — I lack faith in the grandeur, the beauty, 
and the goodness, which my own works are said 
to have made more evident in nature and in 
human life. Why, then, pure seeker of the 
good and true, shouldst thou hope to find me 
in yonder image of the divine ? ” 

The poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were 
dim with tears. So, likewise, were those of 
Ernest. 

At the hour of sunset, as had long been his 
frequent custom, Ernest was to discourse to an 
assemblage of the neighboring inhabitants in the 
open air. He and the poet, arm in arm, still 
talking together as they went along, proceeded 
59 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

to the spot. It was a small nook among the 
hills, with a gray precipice behind, the stern 
front of which was relieved by the pleasant foli- 
age of many creeping plants that made a tapes- 
try for the naked rock, by hanging their festoons 
from all its rugged angles. At a small elevation 
above the ground, set in a rich framework of 
verdure, there appeared a niche, spacious enough 
to admit a human figure, with freedom for such 
gestures as spontaneously accompany earnest 
thought and genuine emotion. Into this nat- 
ural pulpit Ernest ascended, and threw a look 
of familiar kindness around upon his audience. 
They stood, or sat, or reclined upon the grass, 
as seemed good to each, with the departing sun- 
shine falling obliquely over them, and mingling 
its subdued cheerfulness with the solemnity of 
a grove of ancient trees, beneath and amid the 
boughs of which the golden rays were con- 
strained to pass. In another direction was seen 
the Great Stone Face, with the same cheer, com- 
bined with the same solemnity, in its benignant 
aspect. 

Ernest began to speak, giving to the people 
of what was in his heart and mind. His words 
had power, because they accorded with his 
thoughts ; and his thoughts had reality and 
depth, because they harmonized with the life 
which he had always lived. It was not mere 
60 


THE GREAT STONE FACE 


breath that this preacher uttered ; they were the 
words of life, because a life of good deeds and 
holy love was melted into them. Pearls, pure 
and rich, had been dissolved into this precious 
draught. The poet, as he listened, felt that the 
being and character of Ernest were a nobler 
strain of poetry than he had ever written. His 
eyes glistening with tears, he gazed reverentially 
at the venerable man, and said within himself 
that never was there an aspect so worthy of a 
prophet and a sage as that mild, sweet, thought- 
ful countenance, with the glory of white hair 
diffused about it. At a distance, but distinctly 
to be seen, high up in the golden light of the 
setting sun, appeared the Great Stone Face, with 
hoary mists around it, like the white hairs 
around the brow of Ernest. Its look of grand 
beneficence seemed to embrace the world. 

At that moment, in sympathy with a thought 
which he was about to utter, the face of Ernest 
assumed a grandeur of expression, so imbued 
with benevolence, that the poet, by an irre- 
sistible impulse, threw his arms aloft, and 
shouted, — 

cc Behold ! Behold ! Ernest is himself the 
likeness of the Great Stone Face ! ” 

Then all the people looked, and saw that 
what the deep-sighted poet said was true. The 
prophecy was fulfilled. But Ernest, having 
61 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


finished what he had to say, took the poet’s 
arm, and walked slowly homeward, still hoping 
that some wiser and better man than himself 
would by and by appear, bearing a resemblance 
to the Great Stone Face. 

62 


MAIN STREET 


A RESPECTABLE-LOOKING indi- 
vidual makes his bow and addresses the 
public. In my daily walks along the 
principal street of my native town, it has often 
occurred to me, that, if its growth from infancy 
upward, and the vicissitude of characteristic 
scenes that have passed along this thoroughfare 
during the more than two centuries of its exist- 
ence, could be presented to the eye in a shifting 
panorama, it would be an exceedingly effective 
method of illustrating the march of time. Act- 
ing on this idea, I have contrived a certain pic- 
torial exhibition, somewhat in the nature of a 
puppet show, by means of which I propose to 
call up the multiform and many-colored Past 
before the spectator, and show him the ghosts 
of his forefathers, amid a succession of historic 
incidents, with no greater trouble than the turn- 
ing of a crank. Be pleased, therefore, my in- 
dulgent patrons, to walk into the show-room, 
and take your seats before yonder mysterious 
curtain. The little wheels and springs of my 
machinery have been well oiled ; a multitude 
of puppets are dressed in character, representing 
all varieties of fashion, from the Puritan cloak 
6 3 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


and jerkin to the latest Oak Hall coat ; the 
lamps are trimmed, and shall brighten into 
noontide sunshine, or fade away in moonlight, 
or muffle their brilliancy in a November cloud, 
as the nature of the scene may require ; and, in 
short, the exhibition is just ready to commence. 
Unless something should go wrong, — as, for 
instance, the misplacing of a picture, whereby 
the people and events of one century might be 
thrust into the middle of another ; or the break- 
ing of a wire, which would bring the course of 
time to a sudden period, — barring, I say, the 
casualties to which such a complicated piece of 
mechanism is liable, — I flatter myself, ladies 
and gentlemen, that the performance will elicit 
your generous approbation. 

Ting-a- ting- ting ! goes the bell ; the curtain 
rises ; and we behold — not, indeed, the Main 
Street — but the track of leaf-strewn forest land 
over which its dusty pavement is hereafter to 
extend. 

You perceive, at a glance, that this is the an- 
cient and primitive wood, — the ever-youthful 
and venerably old, — verdant with new twigs, 
yet hoary, as it were, with the snowfall of in- 
numerable years, that have accumulated upon 
its intermingled branches. The white man's 
axe has never smitten a single tree ; his footstep 
has never crumpled a single one of the withered 
leaves, which all the autumns since the flood 
64 


MAIN STREET 


have been harvesting beneath. Yet, see ! along 
through the vista of impending boughs, there 
is already a faintly traced path, running nearly 
east and west, as if a prophecy or foreboding of 
the future street had stolen into the heart of the 
solemn old wood. Onward goes this hardly 
perceptible track, now ascending over a natural 
swell of land, now subsiding gently into a hol- 
low ; traversed here by a little streamlet, which 
glitters like a snake through the gleam of sun- 
shine, and quickly hides itself among the under- 
brush, in its quest for the neighboring cove ; 
and impeded there by the massy corpse of a 
giant of the forest, which had lived out its in- 
calculable term of life, and been overthrown by 
mere old age, and lies buried in the new vege- 
tation that is born of its decay. What footsteps 
can have worn this half-seen path ? Hark ! 
Do we not hear them now rustling softly over 
the leaves? We discern an Indian woman, — 
a majestic and queenly woman, or else her spec- 
tral image does not represent her truly ; for 
this is the great Squaw Sachem, whose rule, with 
that of her sons, extends from Mystic to Aga- 
wam. That red chief, who stalks by her side, 
is Wappacowet, her second husband, the priest 
and magician, whose incantations shall hereafter 
affright the pale-faced settlers with grisly phan- 
toms, dancing and shrieking in the woods at 
midnight. But greater would be the affright 
65 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


of the Indian necromancer if, mirrored in the 
pool of water at his feet, he could catch a pro- 
phetic glimpse of the noonday marvels which 
the white man is destined to achieve ; if he could 
see, as in a dream, the stone front of the stately 
hall, which will cast its shadow over this very 
spot ; if he could be aware that the future edi- 
fice will contain a noble Museum, where, among 
countless curiosities of earth and sea, a few In- 
dian arrow-heads shall be treasured up as me- 
morials of a vanished race ! 

No such forebodings disturb the Squaw Sa- 
chem and Wappacowet. They pass on, beneath 
the tangled shade, holding high talk on matters 
of state and religion, and imagine, doubtless, 
that their own system of affairs will endure for- 
ever. Meanwhile, how full of its own proper 
life is the scene that lies around them ! The 
gray squirrel runs up the trees, and rustles 
among the upper branches. Was not that the 
leap of a deer ? And there is the whir of a 
partridge ! Methinks, too, I catch the cruel 
and stealthy eye of a wolf, as he draws back into 
yonder impervious density of underbrush. So, 
there, amid the murmur of boughs, go the In- 
dian queen and the Indian priest ; while the 
gloom of the broad wilderness impends over 
them, and its sombre mystery invests them as 
with something preternatural ; and only mo- 
mentary streaks of quivering sunlight, once in a 
66 


MAIN STREET 


great while, find their way down, and glimmer 
among the feathers in their dusky hair. Can it 
be that the thronged street of a city will ever 
pass into this twilight solitude, — over those 
soft heaps of the decaying tree-trunks, and 
through the swampy places, green with water 
moss, and penetrate that hopeless entanglement 
of great trees, which have been uprooted and 
tossed together by a whirlwind ? It has been a 
wilderness from the creation. Must it not be a 
wilderness forever? 

Here an acidulous-looking gentleman in blue 
glasses, with bows of Berlin steel, who has taken 
a seat at the extremity of the front row, begins, 
at this early stage of the exhibition, to criticise. 

“ The whole affair is a manifest catchpenny ! " 
observes he, scarcely under his breath. “ The 
trees look more like weeds in a garden than a 
primitive forest; the Squaw Sachem and Wap- 
pacowet are stiff in their pasteboard joints ; and 
the squirrels, the deer, and the wolf move with 
all the grace of a child's wooden monkey, slid- 
ing up and down a stick." 

“ I am obliged to you, sir, for the candor of 
your remarks," replies the showman, with a 
bow. “ Perhaps they are just. Human art has 
its limits, and we must now and then ask a little 
aid from the spectator's imagination." 

“ You will get no such aid from mine," re- 
sponds the critic. “ I make it a point to see 
67 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


things precisely as they are. But come ! go 
ahead ! the stage is waiting ! ” 

The showman proceeds. 

Casting our eyes again over the scene, we 
perceive that strangers have found their way 
into the solitary place. In more than one spot, 
among the trees, an upheaved axe is glittering 
in the sunshine. Roger Conant, the first settler 
in Naumkeag, has built his dwelling, months 
ago, on the border of the forest path ; and at 
this moment he comes eastward through the 
vista of woods, with his gun over his shoulder, 
bringing home the choice portions of a deer. 
His stalwart figure, clad in a leathern jerkin and 
breeches of the same, strides sturdily onward, 
with such an air of physical force and energy 
that we might almost expect the very trees to 
stand aside and give him room to pass. And 
so, indeed, they must ; for, humble as is his 
name in history, Roger Conant still is of that 
class of men who do not merely find, but make, 
their place in the system of human affairs ; a 
man of thoughtful strength, he has planted the 
germ of a city. There stands his habitation, 
showing in its rough architecture some features 
of the Indian wigwam, and some of the log 
cabin, and somewhat, too, of the straw-thatched 
cottage in Old England, where this good yeo- 
man had his birth and breeding. The dwelling 
is surrounded by a cleared space of a few acres, 
68 


MAIN STREET 


where Indian corn grows thrivingly among the 
stumps of the trees ; while the dark forest hems 
it in, and seems to gaze silently and solemnly, 
as if wondering at the breadth of sunshine which 
the white man spreads around him. An Indian, 
half hidden in the dusky shade, is gazing and 
wondering too. 

Within the door of the cottage you discern 
the wife, with her ruddy English cheek. She is 
singing, doubtless, a psalm tune, at her house- 
hold work ; or, perhaps, she sighs at the re- 
membrance of the cheerful gossip and all the 
merry social life of her native village beyond 
the vast and melancholy sea. Yet the next mo- 
ment she laughs, with sympathetic glee, at the 
sports of her little tribe of children ; and soon 
turns round, with the home look in her face, as 
her husband’s foot is heard approaching the 
rough-hewn threshold. How sweet must it be 
for those who have an Eden in their hearts, like 
Roger Conant and his wife, to find a new world 
to project it into, as they have, instead of dwell- 
ing among old haunts of men, where so many 
household fires have been kindled and burnt 
out, that the very glow of happiness has some- 
thing dreary in it ! Not that this pair are alone 
in their wild Eden, for here comes Goodwife 
Massey, the young spouse of Jeffrey Massey, 
from her home hard by, with an infant at her 
breast. Dame Conant has another of like age ; 

69 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


and it shall hereafter be one of the disputed 
points of history which of these two babies was 
the first town-born child. 

But see ! Roger Conant has other neighbors 
within view. Peter Palfrey, likewise, has built 
himself a house, and so has Balch, and Nor- 
man, and Woodbury. Their dwellings, indeed, 
— such is the ingenious contrivance of this piece 
of pictorial mechanism, — seem to have arisen 
at various points of the scene, even while we 
have been looking at it. The forest track, trod- 
den more and more by the hobnailed shoes of 
these sturdy and ponderous Englishmen, has 
now a distinctness which it never could have 
acquired from the light tread of a hundred times 
as many Indian moccasins. It will be a street 
anon. As we observe it now, it goes onward 
from one clearing to another, here plunging into 
a shadowy strip of woods, there open to the 
sunshine, but everywhere showing a decided 
line, along which human interests have begun 
to hold their career. Over yonder swampy 
spot, two trees have been felled, and laid side 
by side to make a causeway. In another place, 
the axe has cleared away a confused intricacy of 
fallen trees and clustered boughs, which had 
been tossed together by a hurricane. So now 
the little children, just beginning to run alone, 
may trip along the path, and not often stumble 
over an impediment, unless they stray from it 
70 


MAIN STREET 


to gather wood berries beneath the trees. And, 
besides the feet of grown people and children, 
there are the cloven hoofs of a small herd of 
cows, who seek their subsistence from the native 
grasses, and help to deepen the track of the fu- 
ture thoroughfare. Goats also browse along it, 
and nibble at the twigs that thrust themselves 
across the way. Not seldom, in its more se- 
cluded portions, where the black shadow of the 
forest strives to hide the trace of human foot- 
steps, stalks a gaunt wolf, on the watch for a 
kid or a young calf ; or fixes his hungry gaze 
on the group of children gathering berries, and 
can hardly forbear to rush upon them. And 
the Indians, coming from their distant wigwams 
to view the white man's settlement, marvel at 
the deep track which he makes, and perhaps 
are saddened by a flitting presentiment that this 
heavy tread will find its way over all the land ; 
and that the wild woods, the wild wolf, and the 
wild Indian will be alike trampled beneath it. 
Even so shall it be. The pavements of the 
Main Street must be laid over the red man's 
grave. 

Behold ! here is a spectacle which should be 
ushered in by the peal of trumpets, if Naumkeag 
had ever yet heard that cheery music, and by 
the roar of cannon, echoing among the woods. 
A procession, — for, by its dignity, as marking 
an epoch in the history of the street, it de- 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

serves that name, — a procession advances along 
the pathway. The good ship Abigail has ar- 
rived from England, bringing wares and mer- 
chandise, for the comfort of the inhabitants and 
traffic with the Indians ; bringing passengers 
too, and, more important than all, a governor 
for the new settlement. Roger Conant and 
Peter Palfrey, with their companions, have been 
to the shore to welcome him ; and now, with 
such honor and triumph as their rude way of 
life permits, are escorting the sea-flushed voy- 
agers to their habitations. At the point where 
Endicott enters upon the scene, two venerable 
trees unite their branches high above his head ; 
thus forming a triumphal arch of living verdure, 
beneath which he pauses, with his wife leaning 
on his arm, to catch the first impression of their 
new-found home. The old settlers gaze not 
less earnestly at him than he at the hoary woods 
and the rough surface of the clearings. They 
like his bearded face, under the shadow of the 
broad-brimmed and steeple-crowned Puritan 
hat, — a visage resolute, grave, and thoughtful, 
yet apt to kindle with that glow of a cheerful 
spirit by which men of strong character are en- 
abled to go joyfully on their proper tasks. His 
form, too, as you see it, in a doublet and hose 
of sad-colored cloth, is of a manly make, fit for 
toil and hardship, and fit to wield the heavy 
sword that hangs from his leathern belt. His 
72 


MAIN STREET 


aspect is a better warrant for the ruler’s office 
than the parchment commission which he bears, 
however fortified it may be with the broad seal 
of the London council. Peter Palfrey nods to 
Roger Conant. “ The worshipful Court of 
Assistants have done wisely,” say they between 
themselves. “They have chosen for our gov- 
ernor a man out of a thousand.” Then they toss 
up their hats, — they, and all the uncouth figures 
of their company, most of whom are clad in 
skins, inasmuch as their old kersey and linsey- 
woolsey garments have been torn and tattered 
by many a long month’s wear, — they all toss 
up their hats, and salute their new governor 
and captain with a hearty English shout of wel- 
come. We seem to hear it with our own ears, 
so perfectly is the action represented in this 
lifelike, this almost magic, picture ! 

But have you observed the lady who leans 
upon the arm of Endicott ? — a rose of beauty 
from an English garden, now to be transplanted 
to a fresher soil. It may be that, long years — 
centuries, indeed — after this fair flower shall 
have decayed, other flowers of the same race 
will appear in the same soil, and gladden other 
generations with hereditary beauty. Does not 
the vision haunt us yet? Has not Nature kept 
the mould unbroken, deeming it a pity that the 
idea should vanish from mortal sight forever, 
after only once assuming earthly substance ? 
73 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


Do we not recognize in that fair woman’s face 
the model of features which still beam, at happy 
moments, on what was then the woodland path- 
way, but has long since grown into a busy 
street ? 

“ This is too ridiculous ! — positively insuf- 
ferable ! ” mutters the same critic who had be- 
fore expressed his disapprobation. “ Here is a 
pasteboard figure, such as a child would cut out 
of a card, with a pair of very dull scissors ; and 
the fellow modestly requests us to see in it the 
prototype of hereditary beauty ! ” 

“ But, sir, you have not the proper point of 
view,” remarks the showman. “ You sit alto- 
gether too near to get the best effect of my 
pictorial exhibition. Pray oblige me by remov- 
ing to this other bench, and I venture to assure 
you the proper light and shadow will transform 
the spectacle into quite another thing.” 

“ Pshaw ! ” replies the critic ; “ I want no 
other light and shade. I have already told you 
that it is my business to see things just as they 
are.” 

“ I would suggest to the author of this in- 
genious exhibition,” observes a gentlemanly per- 
son, who has shown signs of being much inter- 
ested, — “ I would suggest that Anna Gower, 
the first wife of Governor Endicott, and who 
came with him from England, left no pos- 
terity; and that, consequently, we cannot be 
74 


MAIN STREET 


indebted to that honorable lady for any speci- 
mens of feminine loveliness now extant among 
us.” 

Having nothing to allege against this genea- 
logical objection, the showman points again to 
the scene. 

During this little interruption, you perceive 
that the Anglo-Saxon energy — as the phrase 
now goes — has been at work in the spectacle 
before us. So many chimneys now send up their 
smoke, that it begins to have the aspect of a 
village street; although everything is so inarti- 
ficial and inceptive, that it seems as if one re- 
turning wave of the wild nature might over- 
whelm it all. But the one edifice which gives 
the pledge of permanence to this bold enterprise 
is seen at the central point of the picture. There 
stands the meeting-house, a small structure, 
low-roofed, without a spire, and built of rough 
timber, newly hewn, with the sap still in the 
logs, and here and there a strip of bark adher- 
ing to them. A meaner temple was never con- 
secrated to the worship of the Deity. With 
the alternative of kneeling beneath the awful 
vault of the firmament, it is strange that men 
should creep into this pent-up nook, and expect 
God’s presence there. Such, at least, one would 
imagine, might be the feeling of these forest 
settlers, accustomed, as they had been, to stand 
under the dim arches of vast cathedrals, and to 
75 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

offer up their hereditary worship in the old ivy- 
covered churches of rural England, around 
which lay the bones of many generations of 
their forefathers. How could they dispense 
with the carved altar-work ? — how with the 
pictured windows, where the light of common 
day was hallowed by being transmitted through 
the glorified figures of saints ? — how, with the 
lofty roof, imbued, as it must have been, with 
the prayers that had gone upward for centuries ? 
— how with the rich peal of the solemn organ, 
rolling along the aisles, pervading the whole 
church, and sweeping the soul away on a flood 
of audible religion ? They needed nothing of 
all this. Their house of worship, like their 
ceremonial, was naked, simple, and severe. But 
the zeal of a recovered faith burned like a lamp 
within their hearts, enriching everything around 
them with its radiance ; making of these new 
walls and this narrow compass its own cathe- 
dral ; and being, in itself, that spiritual mystery 
and experience, of which sacred architecture, 
pictured windows, and the organ’s grand solem- 
nity are remote and imperfect symbols. All 
was well so long as their lamps were freshly kin- 
dled at the heavenly flame. After a while, how- 
ever, whether in their time or their children’s, 
these lamps began to burn more dimly, or with 
a less genuine lustre ; and then it might be seen 
how hard, cold, and confined was their system, 
76 


MAIN STREET 


— how like an iron cage was that which they 
called Liberty. 

Too much of this. Look again at the pic- 
ture, and observe how the aforesaid Anglo- 
Saxon energy is now trampling along the street, 
and raising a positive cloud of dust beneath its 
sturdy footsteps. For there the carpenters are 
building a new house, the frame of which was 
hewn and fitted in England, of English oak, 
and sent hither on shipboard ; and here a black- 
smith makes huge clang and clatter on his an- 
vil, shaping out tools and weapons ; and yon- 
der a wheelwright, who boasts himself a London 
workman, regularly bred to his handicraft, is 
fashioning a set of wagon wheels, the track of 
which shall soon be visible. The wild forest is 
shrinking back ; the street has lost the aromatic 
odor of the pine-trees, and of the sweet-fern that 
grew beneath them. The tender and modest 
wild flowers, those gentle children of savage na- 
ture that grew pale beneath the ever-brooding 
shade, have shrunk away and disappeared, like 
stars that vanish in the breadth of light. Gar- 
dens are fenced in, and display pumpkin-beds 
and rows of cabbages and beans ; and, though 
the governor and the minister both view them 
with a disapproving eye, plants of broad-leaved 
tobacco, which the cultivators are enjoined to 
use privily or not at all. No wolf, for a year 
past, has been heard to bark, or known to range 
77 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


among the dwellings, except that single one, 
whose grisly head, with a plash of blood be- 
neath it, is now affixed to the portal of the meet- 
ing-house. The partridge has ceased to run 
across the too-frequented path. Of all the wild 
life that used to throng here, only the Indians 
still come into the settlement, bringing the 
skins of beaver and otter, bear and elk, which 
they sell to Endicott for the wares of England. 
And there is little John Massey, the son of 
Jeffrey Massey and first-born of Naumkeag, 
playing beside his father’s threshold, a child of 
six or seven years old. Which is the better 
grown infant, — the town or the boy ? 

The red men have become aware that the 
street is no longer free to them, save by the 
sufferance and permission of the settlers. Often, 
to impress them with an awe of English power, 
there is a muster and training of the town 
forces, and a stately march of the mail-clad band, 
like this which we now see advancing up the 
street. There they come, fifty of them or more ; 
all with their iron breastplates and steel caps 
well burnished, and glimmering bravely against 
the sun ; their ponderous muskets on their 
shoulders, their bandoliers about their waists, 
their lighted matches in their hands, and the 
drum and fife playing cheerily before them. 
See ! do they not step like martial men ? Do 
they not manoeuvre like soldiers who have seen 
78 


MAIN STREET 


stricken fields ? And well they may ; for this 
band is composed of precisely such materials as 
those with which Cromwell is preparing to beat 
down the strength of a kingdom ; and his fa- 
mous regiment of Ironsides might be recruited 
from just such men. In everything at this 
period. New England was the essential spirit 
and flower of that which was about to become 
uppermost in the mother country. Many a 
bold and wise man lost the fame which would 
have accrued to him in English history, by 
crossing the Atlantic with our forefathers. 
Many a valiant captain, who might have been 
foremost at Marston Moor or Naseby, ex- 
hausted his martial ardor in the command of a 
log-built fortress, like that which you observe 
on the gently rising ground at the right of the 
pathway, — its banner fluttering in the breeze, 
and the culverins and sakers showing their 
deadly muzzles over the rampart. 

A multitude of people were now thronging 
to New England : some, because the ancient 
and ponderous framework of Church and State 
threatened to crumble down upon their heads ; 
others, because they despaired of such a down- 
fall. Among those who came to Naumkeag 
were men of history and legend, whose feet leave 
a track of brightness along any pathway which 
they have trodden. You shall behold their life- 
like images — their spectres, if you choose so to 
79 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


call them — passing, encountering with a famil- 
iar nod, stopping to converse together, praying, 
bearing weapons, laboring, or resting from their 
labors, in the Main Street. Here, now, comes 
Hugh Peters, an earnest, restless man, walking 
swiftly, as being impelled by that fiery activity of 
nature which shall hereafter thrust him into the 
conflict of dangerous affairs, make him the chap- 
lain and counsellor of Cromwell, and finally bring 
him to a bloody end. He pauses, by the meet- 
ing-house, to exchange a greeting with Roger 
Williams, whose face indicates, methinks, a gen- 
tler spirit, kinder and more expansive, than that 
of Peters ; yet not less active for what he dis- 
cerns to be the will of God or the welfare of 
mankind. And look ! here is a guest for En- 
dicott, coming forth out of the forest, through 
which he has been journeying from Boston, and 
which, with its rude branches, has caught hold 
of his attire, and has wet his feet with its swamps 
and streams. Still there is something in his 
mild and venerable though not aged presence — 
a propriety, an equilibrium, in Governor Win- 
throp’s nature — that causes the disarray of his 
costume to be unnoticed, and gives us the same 
impression as if he were clad in such grave and 
rich attire as we may suppose him to have worn 
in the Council Chamber of the colony. Is not 
this characteristic wonderfully perceptible in our 
spectral representative of his person ? But what 
80 


MAIN STREET 


dignitary is this crossing from the other side to 
greet the governor ? A stately personage, in a 
dark velvet cloak, with a hoary beard, and a gold 
chain across his breast ; he has the authorita- 
tive port of one who has filled the highest civic 
station in the first of cities. Of all men in the 
world, we should least expect to meet the Lord 
Mayor of London — as Sir Richard Saltonstall 
has been once and again — in a forest-bordered 
settlement of the western wilderness. 

Farther down the street, we see Emanuel 
Downing, a grave and worthy citizen, with his 
son George, a stripling who has a career before 
him ; his shrewd and quick capacity and pliant 
conscience shall not only exalt him high, but 
secure him from a downfall. Here is another 
figure, on whose characteristic make and expres- 
sive action I will stake the credit of my pictorial 
puppet show. Have you not already detected 
a quaint, sly humor in that face, — an eccentri- 
city in the manner, — a certain indescribable 
waywardness, — all the marks, in short, of an 
original man, unmistakably impressed, yet kept 
down by a sense of clerical restraint ? That is 
Nathaniel Ward, the minister of Ipswich, but 
better remembered as the simple cobbler of 
Agawam. He hammered his sole so faithfully, 
and stitched his upper-leather so well, that the 
shoe is hardly yet worn out, though thrown 
aside for some two centuries past. And next, 
81 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


among these Puritans and Roundheads, we 
observe the very model of a Cavalier, with 
the curling lovelock, the fantastically trimmed 
beard, the embroidery, the ornamented rapier, 
the gilded dagger, and all other foppishnesses 
that distinguished the wild gallants who rode 
headlong to their overthrow in the cause of 
King Charles. This is Morton of Merry 
Mount, who has come hither to hold a council 
with Endicott, but will shortly be his prisoner. 
Yonder pale, decaying figure of a white-robed 
woman, who glides slowly along the street, is 
the Lady Arabella, looking for her own grave 
in the virgin soil. That other female form, 
who seems to be talking — we might almost say 
preaching or expounding — in the centre of a 
group of profoundly attentive auditors, is Ann 
Hutchinson. And here comes Vane — 

“ But, my dear sir,” interrupts the same 
gentleman who before questioned the show- 
man’s genealogical accuracy, cc allow me to ob- 
serve that these historical personages could not 
possibly have met together in the Main Street. 
They might, and probably did, all visit our old 
town at one time or another, but not simulta- 
neously ; and you have fallen into anachronisms 
that I positively shudder to think of ! ” 

“ The fellow,” adds the scarcely civil critic, 
“ has learned a bead-roll of historic names, 
whom he lugs into his pictorial puppet show, 
82 


MAIN STREET 


as he calls it, helter-skelter, without caring 
whether they were contemporaries or not, — 
and sets them all by the ears together. But 
was there ever such a fund of impudence ? To 
hear his running commentary, you would sup- 
pose that these miserable slips of painted paste- 
board, with hardly the remotest outlines of the 
human figure, had all the character and expres- 
sion of Michael Angelo's pictures. Well ! go 
on, sir ! ” 

“ Sir, you break the illusion of the scene," 
mildly remonstrates the showman. 

“ Illusion ! What illusion ? " rejoins the 
critic, with a contemptuous snort. “ On the 
word of a gentleman, I see nothing illusive in 
the wretchedly bedaubed sheet of canvas that 
forms your background, or in these pasteboard 
slips that hitch and jerk along the front. The 
only illusion, permit me to say, is in the puppet 
showman's tongue, — and that but a wretched 
one, into the bargain ! ” 

“ We public men," replies the showman, 
meekly, “must lay our account, sometimes, to 
meet an uncandid severity of criticism. But — 
merely for your own pleasure, sir — let me en- 
treat you to take another point of view. Sit 
farther back, by that young lady, in whose face 
I have watched the reflection of every changing 
scene ; only oblige me by sitting there ; and, 
take my word for it, the slips of pasteboard 
83 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


shall assume spiritual life, and the bedaubed 
canvas become an airy and changeable reflex of 
what it purports to represent.” 

“ I know better,” retorts the critic, settling 
himself in his seat, with sullen but self-compla- 
cent immovableness. “ And, as for my own 
pleasure, I shall best consult it by remaining 
precisely where I am.” 

The showman bows, and waves his hand ; 
and, at the signal, as if time and vicissitude had 
been awaiting his permission to move onward, 
the mimic street becomes alive again. 

Years have rolled over our scene, and con- 
verted the forest track into a dusty thorough- 
fare, which, being intersected with lanes and 
cross-paths, may fairly be designated as the 
Main Street. On the ground sites of many of 
the log-built sheds, into which the first settlers 
crept for shelter, houses of quaint architecture 
have now risen. These later edifices are built, 
as you see, in one generally accordant style, 
though with such subordinate variety as keeps 
the beholder’s curiosity excited, and causes each 
structure, like its owner’s character, to produce 
its own peculiar impression. Most of them 
have one huge chimney in the centre, with flues 
so vast that it must have been easy for the 
witches to fly out of them, as they were wont 
to do, when bound on an aerial visit to the 
Black Man in the forest. Around this great 
84 


MAIN STREET 


chimney the wooden house clusters itself in a 
whole community of gable-ends, each ascending 
into its own separate peak; the second story, 
with its lattice windows, projecting over the first ; 
and the door, which is perhaps arched, provided 
on the outside with an iron hammer, wherewith 
the visitor's hand may give a thundering rat-a- 
tat. The timber framework of these houses, as 
compared with those of recent date, is like the 
skeleton of an old giant beside the frail bones 
of a modern man of fashion. Many of them, 
by the vast strength and soundness of their 
oaken substance, have been preserved through a 
length of time which would have tried the stabil- 
ity of brick and stone ; so that, in all the pro- 
gressive decay and continual reconstruction of 
the street, down to our own days, we shall still 
behold these old edifices occupying their long- 
accustomed sites. For instance, on the upper 
corner of that green lane, which shall hereafter be 
North Street, we see the Curwen House, newly 
built, with the carpenters still at work on the 
roof nailing down the last sheaf of shingles. 
On the lower corner stands another dwelling, — 
destined, at some period of its existence, to 
be the abode of an unsuccessful alchemist, — 
which shall likewise survive to our own gene- 
ration, and perhaps long outlive it. Thus, 
through the medium of these patriarchal edi- 
fices, we have now established a sort of kindred 
85 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

and hereditary acquaintance with the Main 
Street. 

Great as is the transformation produced by a 
short term of years, each single day creeps 
through the Puritan settlement sluggishly 
enough. It shall pass before your eyes, con- 
densed into the space of a few moments. The 
gray light of early morning is slowly diffusing 
itself over the scene ; and the bellman, whose 
office it is to cry the hour at the street corners, 
rings the last peal upon his hand-bell, and goes 
wearily homewards, with the owls, the bats, and 
other creatures of the night. Lattices are thrust 
back on their hinges, as if the town were open- 
ing its eyes, in the summer morning. Forth 
stumbles the still drowsy cowherd, with his 
horn ; putting which to his lips, it emits a bel- 
lowing bray, impossible to be represented in 
the picture, but which reaches the pricked-up 
ears of every cow in the settlement, and tells 
her that the dewy pasture hour is come. House 
after house awakes, and sends the smoke up 
curling from its chimney, like frosty breath 
from living nostrils ; and as those white wreaths 
of smoke, though impregnated with earthy ad- 
mixtures, climb skyward, so from each dwelling 
does the morning worship — its spiritual es- 
sence bearing up its human imperfection — find 
its way to the heavenly Father’s throne. 

The breakfast hour being passed, the inhab- 
86 


MAIN STREET 


itants do not, as usual, go to their fields or 
workshops, but remain within doors ; or per- 
haps walk the street, with a grave sobriety, yet 
a disengaged and unburdened aspect, that be- 
longs neither to a holiday nor a Sabbath. And, 
indeed, this passing day is neither, nor is it a 
common week-day, although partaking of all 
the three. It is the Thursday Lecture; an in- 
stitution which New England has long ago re- 
linquished, and almost forgotten, yet which it 
would have been better to retain, as bearing 
relations to both the spiritual and ordinary life, 
and bringing each acquainted with the other. 
The tokens of its observance, however, which 
here meet our eyes, are of rather a questionable 
cast. It is, in one sense, a day of public shame; 
the day on which transgressors, who have made 
themselves liable to the minor severities of the 
Puritan law, receive their reward of ignominy. 
At this very moment, the constable has bound 
an idle fellow to the whipping-post, and is giv- 
ing him his deserts with a cat-o’-nine-tails. 
Ever since sunrise, Daniel Fairfield has been 
standing on the steps of the meeting-house, 
with a halter about his neck, which he is con- 
demned to wear visibly throughout his lifetime ; 
Dorothy Talby is chained to a post at the cor- 
ner of Prison Lane, with the hot sun blazing 
on her matronly face, and all for no other of- 
fence than lifting her hand against her husband ; 

87 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

while, through the bars of that great wooden 
cage, in the centre of the scene, we discern 
either a human being or a wild beast, or both 
in one, whom this public infamy causes to roar, 
and gnash his teeth, and shake the strong oaken 
bars, as if he would break forth, and tear in 
pieces the little children who have been peeping 
at him. Such are the profitable sights that serve 
the good people to while away the earlier part 
of lecture-day. Betimes in the forenoon, a trav- 
eller — the first traveller that has come hither- 
ward this morning — rides slowly into the street 
on his patient steed: He seems a clergyman ; 
and, as he draws near, we recognize the min- 
ister of Lynn, who was preengaged to lecture 
here, and has been revolving his discourse as he 
rode through the hoary wilderness. Behold, 
now, the whole town thronging into the meet- 
ing-house, mostly with such sombre visages 
that the sunshine becomes little better than a 
shadow when it falls upon them. There go the 
Thirteen Men, grim rulers of a grim commu- 
nity. There goes John Massey, the first town- 
born child, now a youth of twenty, whose eye 
wanders with peculiar interest towards that 
buxom damsel who comes up the steps at the 
same instant. There hobbles Goody Foster, a 
sour and bitter old beldam, looking as if she 
went to curse and not to pray, and whom many 
of her neighbors suspect of taking an occasional 
88 


MAIN STREET 


airing on a broomstick. There, too, slinking 
shamefacedly in, you observe that same poor 
do-nothing and good-for-nothing whom we saw 
castigated just now at the whipping-post. Last 
of all, there goes the tithing-man, lugging in a 
couple of small boys, whom he has caught at 
play beneath God’s blessed sunshine, in a back 
lane. What native of Naumkeag, whose recol- 
lections go back more than thirty years, does 
not still shudder at that dark ogre of his infancy, 
who perhaps had long ceased to have an actual 
existence, but still lived in his childish belief, in 
a horrible idea, and in the nurse’s threat, as the 
Tidy Man ! 

It will be hardly worth our while to wait two, 
or it may be three, turnings of the hour-glass, 
for the conclusion of the lecture. Therefore, by 
my control over light and darkness, I cause the 
dusk, and then the starless night, to brood over 
the street ; and summon forth again the bell- 
man, with his lantern casting a gleam about his 
footsteps, to pace wearily from corner to corner, 
and shout drowsily the hour to drowsy or dream- 
ing ears. Happy are we, if for nothing else, yet 
because we did not live in those days. In truth, 
when the first novelty and stir of spirit had sub- 
sided, — when the new settlement, between the 
forest border and the sea, had become actually 
a little town, — its daily life must have trudged 
onward with hardly anything to diversify and 
89 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


enliven it, while also its rigidity could not fail 
to cause miserable distortions of the moral na- 
ture. Such a life was sinister to the intellect 
and sinister to the heart ; especially when one 
generation had bequeathed its religious gloom, 
and the counterfeit of its religious ardor, to the 
next ; for these characteristics, as was inevitable, 
assumed the form both of hypocrisy and exag- 
geration, by being inherited from the example 
and precept of other human beings, and not 
from an original and spiritual source. The sons 
and grandchildren of the first settlers were a race 
of lower and narrower souls than their progen- 
itors had been. The latter were stern, severe, 
intolerant, but not superstitious, not even fanat- 
ical ; and endowed, if any men of that age were, 
with a far-seeing worldly sagacity. But it was 
impossible for the succeeding race to grow up, 
in heaven’s freedom, beneath the discipline 
which their gloomy energy of character had 
established ; nor, it may be, have we even yet 
thrown off all the unfavorable influences which, 
among many good ones, were bequeathed to us 
by our Puritan forefathers. Let us thank God 
for having given us such ancestors ; and let each 
successive generation thank Him, not less fer- 
vently, for being one step further from them in 
the march of ages. 

“ What is all this ? ” cries the critic. cc A ser- 
mon? If so, it is not in the bill.” 

90 


MAIN STREET 


“Very true,” replies the showman; “and I 
ask pardon of the audience.” 

Look now at the street, and observe a strange 
people entering it. Their garments are torn 
and disordered, their faces haggard, their figures 
emaciated ; for they have made their way hither 
through pathless deserts, suffering hunger and 
hardship, with no other shelter than a hollow 
tree, the lair of a wild beast, or an Indian wig- 
wam. Nor, in the most inhospitable and dan- 
gerous of such lodging-places, was there half 
the peril that awaits them in this thoroughfare 
of Christian men, with those secure dwellings 
and warm hearths on either side of it, and yon- 
der meeting-house as the central object of the 
scene. These wanderers have received from 
Heaven a gift that, in all epochs of the world, 
has brought with it the penalties of mortal suf- 
fering and persecution, scorn, enmity, and death 
itself, — a gift that, thus terrible to its posses- 
sors, has ever been most hateful to all other 
men, since its very existence seems to threaten 
the overthrow of whatever else the toilsome 
ages have built up, — the gift of a new idea. 
You can discern it in them, illuminating their 
faces — their whole persons, indeed, however 
earthly and cloddish — with a light that inevi- 
tably shines through, and makes the startled 
community aware that these men are not as they 
themselves are, — not brethren nor neighbors 
9i 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


of their thought. Forthwith, it is as if an earth- 
quake rumbled through the town, making its 
vibrations felt at every hearthstone, and espe- 
cially causing the spire of the meeting-house to 
totter. The Quakers have come. We are in 
peril ! See ! they trample upon our wise and 
well-established laws in the person of our chief 
magistrate ; for Governor Endicott is passing, 
now an aged man, and dignified with long 
habits of authority, — and not one of the irrev- 
erent vagabonds has moved his hat. Did you 
note the ominous frown of the white-bearded 
Puritan governor, as he turned himself about, 
and, in his anger, half uplifted the staff that has 
become a needful support to his old age ? Here 
comes old Mr. Norris, our venerable minister. 
Will they doff their hats, and pay reverence 
to him ? No ; their hats stick fast to their un- 
gracious heads, as if they grew there ; and — 
impious varlets that they are, and worse than 
the heathen Indians ! — they eye our reverend 
pastor with a peculiar scorn, distrust, unbelief, 
and utter denial of his sanctified pretensions, 
of which he himself immediately becomes con- 
scious ; the more bitterly conscious, as he never 
knew nor dreamed of the like before. 

But look yonder ! Can we believe our eyes ? 
A Quaker woman, clad in sackcloth, and with 
ashes on her head, has mounted the steps of 
the meeting-house. She addresses the people 
92 


MAIN STREET 


in a wild, shrill voice, — wild and shrill it must 
be to suit such a figure, — which makes them 
tremble and turn pale, although they crowd 
open-mouthed to hear her. She is bold against 
established authority, she denounces the priest 
and his steeple-house. Many of her hearers 
are appalled ; some weep ; and others listen 
with a rapt attention, as if a living truth had 
now, for the first time, forced its way through 
the crust of habit, reached their hearts, and 
awakened them to life. This matter must be 
looked to ; else we have brought our faith 
across the seas with us in vain ; and it had been 
better that the old forest were still standing 
here, waving its tangled boughs and murmuring 
to the sky out of its desolate recesses, instead 
of this goodly street, if such blasphemies be 
spoken in it. 

So thought the old Puritans. What was their 
mode of action may be partly judged from the 
spectacles which now pass before your eyes. 
Joshua Buffium is standing in the pillory. Cas- 
sandra Southwick is led to prison. And there 
a woman, — it is Ann Coleman, — naked from 
the waist upward, and bound to the tail of a 
cart, is dragged through the Main Street at the 
pace of a brisk walk, while the constable follows 
with a whip of knotted cords. A strong-armed 
fellow is that constable ; and each time that he 
flourishes his lash in the air, you see a frown 
93 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


wrinkling and twisting his brow, and, at the 
same instant, a smile upon his lips. He loves 
his business, faithful officer that he is, and puts 
his soul into every stroke, zealous to fulfil the 
injunction of Major Hawthorne's warrant, in 
the spirit and to the letter. There came down 
a stroke that has drawn blood ! Ten such 
stripes are to be given in Salem, ten in Boston, 
and ten in Dedham ; and, with those thirty 
stripes of blood upon her, she is to be driven 
into the forest. The crimson trail goes waver- 
ing along the Main Street ; but Heaven grant 
that, as the rain of so many years has wept upon 
it, time after time, and washed it all away, so 
there may have been a dew of mercy to cleanse 
this cruel blood-stain out of the record of the 
persecutor's life ! 

Pass on, thou spectral constable, and betake 
thee to thine own place of torment. Meanwhile, 
by the silent operation of the mechanism behind 
the scenes, a considerable space of time would 
seem to have lapsed over the street. The older 
dwellings now begin to look weather beaten, 
through the effect of the many eastern storms 
that have moistened their unpainted shingles and 
clapboards for not less than forty years. Such 
is the age we would assign to the town, judging 
by the aspect of John Massey, the first town- 
born child, whom his neighbors now call Good- 
man Massey, and whom we see yonder, a grave, 
94 


MAIN STREET 


almost autumnal-looking man, with children of 
his own about him. To the patriarchs of the 
settlement, no doubt, the Main Street is still 
but an affair of yesterday, hardly more antique, 
even if destined to be more permanent, than a 
path shovelled through the snow. But to the 
middle-aged and elderly men who came hither 
in childhood or early youth, it presents the as- 
pect of a long and well-established work, on 
which they have expended the strength and 
ardor of their life. And the younger people, 
native to the street, whose earliest recollections 
are of creeping over the paternal threshold, and 
rolling on the grassy margin of the track, look at 
it as one of the perdurable things of our mortal 
state, — as old as the hills of the great pasture 
or the headland at the harbor's mouth. Their 
fathers and grandsires tell them how, within a 
few years past, the forest stood here with but a 
lonely track beneath its tangled shade. Vain 
legend ! They cannot make it true and real to 
their conceptions. With them, moreover, the 
Main Street is a street indeed, worthy to hold 
its way with the thronged and stately avenues 
of cities beyond the sea. The old Puritans tell 
them of the crowds that hurry along Cheapside 
and Fleet Street and the Strand, and of the rush 
of tumultuous life at Temple Bar. They de- 
scribe London Bridge, itself a street, with a row 
of houses on each side. They speak of the 
95 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


vast structure of the Tower, and the solemn 
grandeur of Westminster Abbey. The chil- 
dren listen, and still inquire if the streets of 
London are longer and broader than the one 
before their father’s door ; if the Tower is big- 
ger than the jail in Prison Lane ; if the old 
Abbey will hold a larger congregation than our 
meeting-house. Nothing impresses them, ex- 
cept their own experience. 

It seems all a fable, too, that wolves have 
ever prowled here ; and not less so that the 
Squaw Sachem, and the Sagamore her son, once 
ruled over this region, and treated as sovereign 
potentates with the English settlers, then so 
few and storm-beaten, now so powerful. There 
stand some schoolboys, you observe, in a little 
group around a drunken Indian, himself a 
prince of the Squaw Sachem’s lineage. He 
brought hither some beaver skins for sale, and 
has already swallowed the larger portion of their 
price in deadly draughts of fire-water. Is there 
not a touch of pathos in that picture ? and does 
it not go far towards telling the whole story of 
the vast growth and prosperity of one race, and 
the fated decay of another ? — the children of 
the stranger making game of the great Squaw 
Sachem’s grandson ! 

But the whole race of red men have not van- 
ished with that wild princess and her posterity. 
This march of soldiers along the street betok- 
96 


MAIN STREET 


ens the breaking out of King's Philip's war; 
and these young men, the flower of Essex, are 
on their way to defend the villages on the Con- 
necticut ; where, at Bloody Brook, a terrible 
blow shall be smitten, and hardly one of that 
gallant band be left alive. And there, at that 
stately mansion, with its three peaks in front, 
and its two little peaked towers, one on either 
side of the door, we see brave Captain Gardner 
issuing forth, clad in his embroidered buff-coat, 
and his plumed cap upon his head. His trusty 
sword, in its steel scabbard, strikes clanking on 
the doorstep. See how the people throng to 
their doors and windows, as the cavalier rides 
past, reining his mettled steed so gallantly, and 
looking so like the very soul and emblem of 
martial achievement, — destined, too, to meet a 
warrior’s fate, at the desperate assault on the 
fortress of the Narragansetts ! 

“ The mettled steed looks like a pig,” inter- 
rupts the critic, “ and Captain Gardner himself 
like the Devil, though a very tame one, and on 
a most diminutive scale.” 

“ Sir, sir ! " cries the persecuted showman, 
losing all patience, — for, indeed, he had par- 
ticularly prided himself on these figures of Cap- 
tain Gardner and his horse, — “ I see that there 
is no hope of pleasing you. Pray, sir, do me 
the favor to take back your money and with- 
draw ! ” 


97 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


“ Not I ! ” answers the unconscionable critic. 
“ I am just beginning to get interested in the 
matter. Come ! turn your crank, and grind out 
a few more of these fooleries ! ” 

The showman rubs his brow impulsively, 
whisks the little rod with which he points out 
the notabilities of the scene, but, finally, with 
the inevitable acquiescence of all public servants, 
resumes his composure and goes on. 

Pass onward, onward, Time ! Build up new 
houses here, and tear down thy works of yester- 
day, that have already the rusty moss upon 
them ! Summon forth the minister to the abode 
of the young maiden, and bid him unite her to 
the joyful bridegroom ! Let the youthful par- 
ents carry their first-born to the meeting-house, 
to receive the baptismal rite ! Knock at the 
door, whence the sable line of the funeral is next 
to issue ! Provide other successive generations 
of men, to trade, talk, quarrel, or walk in friendly 
intercourse along the street, as their fathers 
did before them ! Do all thy daily and accus- 
tomed business. Father Time, in this thorough- 
fare, which thy footsteps, for so many years, 
have now made dusty ! But here, at last, thou 
leadest along a procession which, once witnessed, 
shall appear no more, and be remembered only 
as a hideous dream of thine, or a frenzy of thy 
old brain. 

“ Turn your crank, I say,” bellows the re- 
98 


MAIN STREET 


morseless critic, “ and grind it out, whatever it 
be, without further preface ! ” 

The showman deems it best to comply. 

Then, here comes the worshipful Captain 
Curwen, sheriff of Essex, on horseback, at the 
head of an armed guard, escorting a company of 
condemned prisoners from the jail to their place 
of execution on Gallows Hill. The witches ! 
There is no mistaking them ! The witches ! 
As they approach up Prison Lane, and turn 
into the Main Street, let us watch their faces, as 
if we made a part of the pale crowd that presses 
so eagerly about them, yet shrinks back with 
such shuddering dread, leaving an open passage 
betwixt a dense throng on either side. Listen 
to what the people say. 

There is old George Jacobs, known here- 
abouts, these sixty years, as a man whom we 
thought upright in all his way of life, quiet, 
blameless, a good husband, before his pious 
wife was summoned from the evil to come, and 
a good father to the children whom she left 
him. Ah ! but when that blessed woman went 
to heaven, George Jacobs’s heart was empty, 
his hearth lonely, his life broken up ; his chil- 
dren were married, and betook themselves to 
habitations of their own ; and Satan, in his wan- 
derings up and down, beheld this forlorn old 
man, to whom life was a sameness and a weari- 
ness, and found the way to tempt him. So the 
99 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


miserable sinner was prevailed with to mount 
into the air, and career among the clouds ; and 
he is proved to have been present at a witch- 
meeting as far off as Falmouth, on the very 
same night that his next neighbors saw him, 
with his rheumatic stoop, going in at his own 
door. There is John Willard, too ; an honest 
man we thought him, and so shrewd and active 
in his business, so practical, so intent on every- 
day affairs, so constant at his little place of 
trade, where he bartered English goods for In- 
dian corn and all kinds of country produce ! 
How could such a man find time, or what could 
put it into his mind, to leave his proper calling 
and become a wizard ? It is a mystery, unless 
the Black Man tempted him with great heaps 
of gold. See that aged couple, — a sad sight, 
truly, — John Proctor and his wife Elizabeth. 
If there were two old people in all the county 
of Essex who seemed to have led a true Chris- 
tian life, and to be treading hopefully the little 
remnant of their earthly path, it was this very 
pair. Yet have we heard it sworn, to the satis- 
faction of the worshipful Chief Justice Sewell, 
and all the court and jury, that Proctor and his 
wife have shown their withered faces at chil- 
dren's bedsides, mocking, making mouths, and 
affrighting the poor little innocents in the night- 
time. They, or their spectral appearances, have 
stuck pins into the Afflicted Ones, and thrown 
ioo 


MAIN STREET 


them into deadly fainting fits with a touch or 
but a look. And, while we supposed the old 
man to be reading the Bible to his old wife, — 
she meanwhile knitting in the chimney-corner, 

— the pair of hoary reprobates have whisked 
up the chimney, both on one broomstick, and 
flown away to a witch communion, far into the 
depths of the chill, dark forest. How foolish ! 
Were it only for fear of rheumatic pains in their 
old bones, they had better have stayed at home. 
But away they went ; and the laughter of their 
decayed, cackling voices has been heard at mid- 
night, aloft in the air. Now, in the sunny 
noontide, as they go tottering to the gallows, it 
is the Devil’s turn to laugh. 

Behind these two, — who help one another 
along, and seem to be comforting and encour- 
aging each other, in a manner truly pitiful, if it 
were not a sin to pity the old witch and wizard, 

— behind them comes a woman, with a dark 
proud face that has been beautiful, and a figure 
that is still majestic. Do you know her ? It 
is Martha Carrier, whom the Devil found in a 
humble cottage, and looked into her discon- 
tented heart, and saw pride there, and tempted 
her with his promise that she should be Queen 
of Hell. And now, with that lofty demeanor, 
she is passing to her kingdom, and, by her 
unquenchable pride, transforms this escort of 
shame into a triumphal procession, that shall 

IOI 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


attend her to the gates of her infernal palace, 
and seat her upon the fiery throne. Within this 
hour she shall assume her royal dignity. 

Last of the miserable train comes a man clad 
in black, of small stature and a dark complex- 
ion, with a clerical band about his neck. Many 
a time, in the years gone by, that face has been 
uplifted heavenward from the pulpit of the East 
Meeting-House, when the Rev. Mr. Burroughs 
seemed to worship God. What ! — he ? The 
holy man ! — the learned ! — the wise ! How 
has the Devil tempted him ? His fellow crim- 
inals, for the most part, are obtuse, uncultivated 
creatures, some of them scarcely half witted by 
nature, and others greatly decayed in their in- 
tellects through age. They were an easy prey 
for the destroyer. Not so with this George 
Burroughs, as we judge by the inward light 
which glows through his dark countenance, and, 
we might almost say, glorifies his figure, in spite 
of the soil and haggardness of long imprison- 
ment, — in spite of the heavy shadow that must 
fall on him, while death is walking by his side. 
What bribe could Satan offer, rich enough to 
tempt and overcome this man ? Alas ! it may 
have been in the very strength of his high and 
searching intellect that the Tempter found the 
weakness which betrayed him. He yearned for 
knowledge ; he went groping onward into a 
world of mystery ; at first, as the witnesses have 


MAIN STREET 


sworn, he summoned up the ghosts of his two 
dead wives, and talked with them of matters 
beyond the grave ; and, when their responses 
failed to satisfy the intense and sinful craving 
of his spirit, he called on Satan, and was heard. 
Yet — to look at him — who, that had not 
known the proof, could believe him guilty? 
Who would not say, while we see him offering 
comfort to the weak and aged partners of his 
horrible crime, — while we hear his ejaculations 
of prayer, that seem to bubble up out of the 
depths of his heart, and fly heavenward, una- 
wares, — while we behold a radiance brightening 
on his features as from the other world, which is 
but a few steps off, — who would not say, that, 
over the dusty track of the Main Street, a 
Christian saint is now going to a martyr's death ? 
May not the Arch-Fiend have been too subtle 
for the court and jury, and betrayed them — 
laughing in his sleeve the while — into the aw- 
ful error of pouring out sanctified blood as an 
acceptable sacrifice upon God's altar ? Ah ! no ; 
for listen to wise Cotton Mather, who, as he sits 
there on his horse, speaks comfortably to the 
perplexed multitude, and tells them that all has 
been religiously and justly done, and that Sa- 
tan's power shall this day receive its death blow 
in New England. 

Heaven grant it be so! — the great scholar 
must be right; so lead the poor creatures to 
103 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

their death ! Do you see that group of chil- 
dren and half-grown girls, and, among them, an 
old, hag-like Indian woman, Tituba by name? 
Those are the Afflicted Ones. Behold, at this 
very instant, a proof of Satan’s power and mal- 
ice ! Mercy Parris, the minister’s daughter, 
has been smitten by a flash of Martha Carrier’s 
eye, and falls down in the street, writhing with 
horrible spasms and foaming at the mouth, like 
the possessed one spoken of in Scripture. Hurry 
on the accursed witches to the gallows, ere they 
do more mischief! — ere they fling out their 
withered arms, and scatter pestilence by hand- 
fuls among the crowd! — ere, as their parting 
legacy, they cast a blight over the land, so that 
henceforth it may bear no fruit nor blade of 
grass, and be fit for nothing but a sepulchre for 
their unhallowed carcasses ! So on they go ; 
and old George Jacobs has stumbled, by reason 
of his infirmity ; but Goodman Proctor and his 
wife lean on one another, and walk at a reason- 
ably steady pace, considering their age. Mr. 
Burroughs seems to administer counsel to Mar- 
tha Carrier, whose face and mien, methinks, are 
milder and humbler than they were. Among 
the multitude, meanwhile, there is horror, fear, 
and distrust ; and friend looks askance at friend, 
and the husband at his wife, and the wife at him, 
and even the mother at her little child ; as if, 
in every creature that God has made, they sus- 
104 


MAIN STREET 


pected a witch or dreaded an accuser. Never, 
never again, whether in this or any other shape, 
may Universal Madness riot in the Main 
Street ! 

I perceive in your eyes, my indulgent spec- 
tators, the criticism which you are too kind to 
utter. These scenes, you think, are all too som- 
bre. So, indeed, they are ; but the blame must 
rest on the sombre spirit of our forefathers, who 
wove their web of life with hardly a single 
thread of rose color or gold, and not on me, 
who have a tropic love of sunshine, and would 
gladly gild all the world with it, if I knew 
where to find so much. That you may believe 
me, I will exhibit one of the only class of 
scenes, so far as my investigation has taught me, 
in which our ancestors were wont to steep their 
tough old hearts in wine and strong drink, and 
indulge an outbreak of grisly jollity. 

Here it comes, out of the same house whence 
we saw brave Captain Gardner go forth to the 
wars. What ! A coffin, borne on men’s shoul- 
ders, and six aged gentlemen as pall-bearers, 
and a long train of mourners, with black gloves 
and black hatbands, and everything black, save 
a white handkerchief in each mourner’s hand, 
to wipe away his tears withal. Now, my kind 
patrons, you are angry with me. You were 
bidden to a bridal dance, and find yourselves 
walking in a funeral procession. Even so ; but 
105 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


look back through all the social customs of 
New England, in the first century of her exist- 
ence, and read all her traits of character ; and 
if you find one occasion, other than a funeral 
feast, where jollity was sanctioned by universal 
practice, I will set fire to my puppet show with- 
out another word. These are the obsequies of 
old Governor Bradstreet, the patriarch and sur- 
vivor of the first settlers, who, having intermar- 
ried with the Widow Gardner, is now resting 
from his labors, at the great age of ninety-four. 
The white-bearded corpse, which was his spirit’s 
earthly garniture, now lies beneath yonder cof- 
fin lid. Many a cask of ale and cider is on tap, 
and many a draught of spiced wine and aqua- 
vitae has been quaffed. Else why should the 
bearers stagger, as they tremulously uphold the 
coffin ? — and the aged pall-bearers, too, as they 
strive to walk solemnly beside it ? — and where- 
fore do the mourners tread on one another’s 
heels ? — and why, if we may ask without of- 
fence, should the nose of the Rev. Mr. Noyes, 
through which he has just been delivering the 
funeral discourse, glow like a ruddy coal of 
fire ? Well, well, old friends ! Pass on, with 
your burden of mortality, and lay it in the tomb 
with jolly hearts. People should be permitted 
to enjoy themselves in their own fashion ; every 
man to his taste ; but New England must have 
106 


MAIN STREET 


been a dismal abode for the man of pleasure, 
when the only boon companion was Death ! 

Under cover of a mist that has settled over 
the scene, a few years flit by, and escape our 
notice. As the atmosphere becomes transparent, 
we perceive a decrepit grandsire, hobbling along 
the street. Do you recognize him ? We saw 
him, first, as the baby in Goodwife Massey's 
arms, when the primeval trees were flinging 
their shadow over Roger Conant's cabin ; we 
have seen him, as the boy, the youth, the man, 
bearing his humble part in all the successive 
scenes, and forming the index-figure whereby 
to note the age of his coeval town. And here 
he is, old Goodman Massey, taking his last 
walk, — often pausing, — often leaning over 
his staff, — and calling to mind whose dwelling 
stood at such and such a spot, and whose field 
or garden occupied the site of those more re- 
cent houses. He can render a reason for all 
the bends and deviations of the thoroughfare, 
which, in its flexible and plastic infancy, was 
made to swerve aside from a straight line, in 
order to visit every settler's door. The Main 
Street is still youthful ; the coeval man is in his 
latest age. Soon he will be gone, a patriarch 
of fourscore, yet shall retain a sort of infantine 
life in our local history, as the first town-born 
child. 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


Behold here a change, wrought in the twin- 
kling of an eye, like an incident in a tale of 
magic, even while your observation has been 
fixed upon the scene. The Main Street has 
vanished out of sight. In its stead appears a 
wintry waste of snow, with the sun just peeping 
over it, cold and bright, and tingeing the white 
expanse with the faintest and most ethereal 
rose-color. This is the Great Snow of 1717, 
famous for the mountain drifts in which it 
buried the whole country. It would seem as if 
the street, the growth of which we have noted 
so attentively, following it from its first phase, 
as an Indian track, until it reached the dignity 
of sidewalks, were all at once obliterated, and 
resolved into a drearier pathlessness than when 
the forest covered it. The gigantic swells and 
billows of the snow have swept over each man's 
metes and bounds, and annihilated all the vis- 
ible distinctions of human property. So that 
now the traces of former times and hitherto ac- 
complished deeds being done away, mankind 
should be at liberty to enter on new paths, and 
guide themselves by other laws than heretofore ; 
if, indeed, the race be not extinct, and it be 
worth our while to go on with the march of life, 
over the cold and desolate expanse that lies be- 
fore us. It may be, however, that matters are 
not so desperate as they appear. That vast 
icicle, glittering so cheerlessly in the sunshine, 
108 


MAIN STREET 


must be the spire of the meeting-house, in- 
crusted with frozen sleet. Those great heaps, 
too, which we mistook for drifts, are houses, 
buried up to their eaves, and with their peaked 
roofs rounded by the depth of snow upon them. 
There, now, comes a gush of smoke from what 
I judge to be the chimney of the Ship Tavern ; 
and another — another — and another — from 
the chimneys of other dwellings, where fireside 
comfort, domestic peace, the sports of children, 
and the quietude of age are living yet, in spite 
of the frozen crust above them. 

But it is time to change the scene. Its dreary 
monotony shall not test your fortitude like one 
of our actual New England winters, which leaves 
so large a blank — so melancholy a death spot 
— in lives so brief that they ought to be all 
summer-time. Here, at least, I may claim to 
be ruler of the seasons. One turn of the crank 
shall melt away the snow from the Main Street, 
and show the trees in their full foliage, the rose- 
bushes in bloom, and a border of green grass 
along the sidewalk. There ! But what ! How ! 
The scene will not move. A wire is broken. 
The street continues buried beneath the snow, 
and the fate of Herculaneum and Pompeii has 
its parallel in this catastrophe. 

Alas ! my kind and gentle audience, you 
know not the extent of your misfortune. The 
scenes to come were far better than the past. 

109 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


The street itself would have been more worthy 
of pictorial exhibition ; the deeds of its inhabi- 
tants not less so. And how would your inter- 
est have deepened, as, passing out of the cold 
shadow of antiquity, in my long and weary 
course, I should arrive within the limits of man's 
memory, and, leading you at last into the sun- 
shine of the present, should give a reflex of 
the very life that is flitting past us ! Your 
own beauty, my fair townswomen, would have 
beamed upon you out of my scene. Not a 
gentleman that walks the street but should 
have beheld his own face and figure, his gait, 
the peculiar swing of his arm, and the coat that 
he put on yesterday. Then, too, — and it is 
what I chiefly regret, — I had expended a vast 
deal of light and brilliancy on a representation 
of the street in its whole length, from Buffum’s 
Corner downward, on the night of the grand illu- 
mination for General Taylor’s triumph. Lastly, 
I should have given the crank one other turn, 
and have brought out the future, showing 
you who shall walk the Main Street to-mor- 
row, and, perchance, whose funeral shall pass 
through it ! 

But these, like most other human purposes, 
lie unaccomplished ; and I have only further to 
say, that any lady or gentleman who may feel 
dissatisfied with the evening’s entertainment 
shall receive back the admission fee at the door. 


no 


MAIN STREET 


“ Then give me mine,” cries the critic, stretch- 
ing out his palm. “ I said that your exhibition 
would prove a humbug, and so it has turned out. 
So hand over my quarter ! ” 


ETHAN BRAND 


A CHAPTER FROM AN ABORTIVE ROMANCE 

[In American Note- Books, page 234, is a vivid record of a 
visit made by Hawthorne to a lime-kiln in the neighborhood 
of North Adams, Massachusetts, 7 September, 1838, and 
the impressions then received plainly lay at the base of this 
tale.] 

B ART RAM the lime-burner, a rough, 
heavy-looking man, begrimed with char- 
coal, sat watching his kiln at nightfall, 
while his little son played at building houses 
with the scattered fragments of marble, when, 
on the hillside below them, they heard a roar 
of laughter, not mirthful, but slow, and even 
solemn, like a wind shaking the boughs of the 
forest. 

“ Father, what is that ? ” asked the little boy, 
leaving his play, and pressing betwixt his father's 
knees. 

“ O, some drunken man, I suppose," an- 
swered the lime-burner ; <c some merry fellow 
frc>m the bar-room in the village, who dared not 
Uugh loud enough within doors lest he should 
blow the roof of the house off. So here he 


ETHAN BRAND 


is, shaking his jolly sides at the foot of Gray- 
lock.” 

“ But, father,” said the child, more sensitive 
than the obtuse, middle-aged clown, “ he does 
not laugh like a man that is glad. So the noise 
frightens me ! ” 

“ Don’t be a fool, child ! ” cried his father 
gruffly. “You will never make a man, I do 
believe ; there is too much of your mother in 
you. I have known the rustling of a leaf startle 
you. Hark ! Here comes the merry fellow 
now. You shall see that there is no harm in 
him.” 

Bartram and his little son, while they were 
talking thus, sat watching the same lime-kiln 
that had been the scene of Ethan Brand’s soli- 
tary and meditative life, before he began his 
search for the Unpardonable Sin. Many years, 
as we have seen, had now elapsed, since that 
portentous night when the Idea was first devel- 
oped. The kiln, however, on the mountain-side, 
stood unimpaired, and was in nothing changed 
since he had thrown his dark thoughts into the 
intense glow of its furnace, and melted them, as 
it were, into the one thought that took posses- 
sion of his life. It was a rude, round, tower- 
like structure about twenty feet high, heavily 
built of rough stones, and with a hillock of earth 
heaped about the larger part of its circumfer- 
ence ; so that the blocks and fragments of mar- 
IJ 3 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


ble might be drawn by cartloads, and thrown 
in at the top. There was an opening at the 
bottom of the tower, like an oven mouth, but 
large enough to admit a man in a stooping pos- 
ture, and provided with a massive iron door. 
With the smoke and jets of flame issuing from 
the chinks and crevices of this door, which 
seemed to give admittance into the hillside, it 
resembled nothing so much as the private en- 
trance to the infernal regions, which the shep- 
herds of the Delectable Mountains were accus- 
tomed to show to pilgrims. 

There are many such lime-kilns in that tract 
of country, for the purpose of burning the white 
marble which composes a large part of the sub- 
stance of the hills. Some of them, built years 
ago, and long deserted, with weeds growing in 
the vacant round of the interior, which is open 
to the sky, and grass and wild flowers rooting 
themselves into the chinks of the stones, look 
already like relics of antiquity, and may yet be 
overspread with the lichens of centuries to come. 
Others, where the lime-burner still feeds his 
daily and night-long fire, afford points of inter- 
est to the wanderer among the hills, who seats 
himself on a log of wood or a fragment of mar- 
ble, to hold a chat with the solitary man. It is 
a lonesome, and, when the character is inclined 
to thought, may be an intensely thoughtful 
occupation ; as it proved in the case of Ethan 
1 14 


ETHAN BRAND 


Brand, who had mused to such strange purpose, 
in days gone by, while the fire in this very kiln 
was burning. 

The man who now watched the fire was of 
a different order, and troubled himself with no 
thoughts save the very few that were requisite 
to his business. At frequent intervals, he flung 
back the clashing weight of the iron door, 
and, turning his face from the insufferable glare, 
thrust in huge logs of oak, or stirred the im- 
mense brands with a long pole. Within the 
furnace were seen the curling and riotous flames, 
and the burning marble, almost molten with 
the intensity of heat ; while without, the reflec- 
tion of the fire quivered on the dark intricacy 
of the surrounding forest, and showed in the 
foreground a bright and ruddy little picture of 
the hut, the spring beside its door, the athletic 
and coal-begrimed figure of the lime-burner, 
and the half-frightened child, shrinking into the 
protection of his father's shadow. And when, 
again, the iron door was closed, then reappeared 
the tender light of the half-full moon, which 
vainly strove to trace out the indistinct shapes 
of the neighboring mountains ; and, in the 
upper sky, there was a flitting congregation of 
clouds, still faintly tinged with the rosy sunset, 
though thus far down into the valley the sun- 
shine had vanished long and long ago. 

The little boy now crept still closer to his 
ii5 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


father, as footsteps were heard ascending the 
hillside, and a human form thrust aside the 
bushes that clustered beneath the trees. 

“ Halloo ! who is it ? ” cried the lime-burner, 
vexed at his son's timidity, yet half infected by 
it. “ Come forward and show yourself, like a 
man, or I ’ll fling this chunk of marble at your 
head ! ” 

“You offer me a rough welcome,” said a 
gloomy voice, as the unknown man drew nigh. 
“Yet I neither claim nor desire a kinder one, 
even at my own fireside.” 

To obtain a distincter view, Bartram threw 
open the iron door of the kiln, whence imme- 
diately issued a gush of fierce light, that smote 
full upon the stranger’s face and figure. To 
a careless eye there appeared nothing very re- 
markable in his aspect, which was that of a man 
in a coarse, brown, country-made suit of clothes, 
tall and thin, with the staff and heavy shoes of 
a wayfarer. As he advanced, he fixed his eyes 
— which were very bright — intently upon the 
brightness of the furnace, as if he beheld, or 
expected to behold, some object worthy of note 
within it. 

“ Good-evening, stranger,” said the lime- 
burner ; “ whence come you, so late in the 
day ? ” 

“ I come from my search,” answered the way- 
farer ; “ for, at last, it is finished.” 

116 


ETHAN BRAND 


“ Drunk ! — or crazy ! ” muttered Bartram to 
himself. “ I shall have trouble with the fel- 
low. The sooner I drive him away, the bet- 
ter.” 

The little boy, all in a tremble, whispered to 
his father, and begged him to shut the door of 
the kiln, so that there might not be so much 
light ; for that there was something in the man’s 
face which he was afraid to look at, yet could 
not look away from. And, indeed, even the 
lime-burner’s dull and torpid sense began to be 
impressed by an indescribable something in that 
thin, rugged, thoughtful visage, with the griz- 
zled hair hanging wildly about it, and those 
deeply sunken eyes, which gleamed like fires 
within the entrance of a mysterious cavern. 
But, as he closed the door, the stranger turned 
towards him, and spoke in a quiet, familiar way, 
that made Bartram feel as if he were a sane and 
sensible man, after all. 

“ Your task draws to an end, I see,” said he. 
“ This marble has already been burning three 
days. A few hours more will convert the stone 
to lime.” 

“ Why, who are you ? ” exclaimed the lime- 
burner. “ You seem as well acquainted with 
my business as I am myself.” 

“ And well I may be,” said the stranger ; 
“for I followed the same craft many a long 
year, and here, too, on this very spot. But 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


you are a new-comer in these parts. Did you 
never hear of Ethan Brand ? ” 

“ The man that went in search of the 
Unpardonable Sin ? ” asked Bartram with a 
laugh. 

“ The same,” answered the stranger. “ He 
has found what he sought, and therefore he 
comes back again.” 

<c What ! then you are Ethan Brand him- 
self? ” cried the lime-burner in amazement. 
“ I am a new-comer here, as you say, and they 
call it eighteen years since you left the foot of 
Graylock. But, I can tell you, the good folks 
still talk about Ethan Brand, in the village yon- 
der, and what a strange errand took him away 
from his lime-kiln. Well, and so you have 
found the Unpardonable Sin ? ” 

“ Even so ! ” said the stranger calmly. 

<c If the question is a fair one,” proceeded 
Bartram, “ where might it be ? ” 

Ethan Brand laid his finger on his own heart. 
“ Here ! ” replied he. 

And then, without mirth in his countenance, 
but as if moved by an involuntary recognition 
of the infinite absurdity of seeking throughout 
the world for what was the closest of all things 
to himself, and looking into every heart, save 
his own, for what was hidden in no other breast, 
he broke into a laugh of scorn. It was the 
same slow, heavy laugh, that had almost ap- 
118 


ETHAN BRAND 


palled the lime-burner when it heralded the 
wayfarer's approach. 

The solitary mountain-side was made dismal 
by it. Laughter, when out of place, mistimed, 
or bursting forth from a disordered state of feel- 
ing, may be the most terrible modulation of the 
human voice. The laughter of one asleep, even 
if it be a little child, — the madman's laugh, — 
the wild, screaming laugh of a born idiot, — are 
sounds that we sometimes tremble to hear, and 
would always willingly forget. Poets have ima- 
gined no utterance of fiends or hobgoblins so 
fearfully appropriate as a laugh. And even the 
obtuse lime-burner felt his nerves shaken, as 
this strange man looked inward at his own heart, 
and burst into laughter that rolled away into the 
night, and was indistinctly reverberated among 
the hills. 

“Joe,” said he to his little son, “scamper 
down to the tavern in the village, and tell the 
jolly fellows there that Ethan Brand has come 
back, and that he has found the Unpardonable 
Sin ! ” 

The boy darted away on his errand, to which 
Ethan Brand made no objection, nor seemed 
hardly to notice it. He sat on a log of wood, 
looking steadfastly at the iron door of the kiln. 
When the child was out of sight, and his swift 
and light footsteps ceased to be heard treading 
first on the fallen leaves and then on the rocky 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


mountain-path, the lime-burner began to regret 
his departure. He felt that the little fellow’s 
presence had been a barrier between his guest 
and himself, and that he must now deal, heart 
to heart, with a man who, on his own confes- 
sion, had committed the one only crime for 
which Heaven could afford no mercy. That 
crime, in its indistinct blackness, seemed to 
overshadow him. The lime-burner’s own sins 
rose up within him, and made his memory riot- 
ous with a throng of evil shapes that asserted 
their kindred with the Master Sin, whatever it 
might be, which it was within the scope of man’s 
corrupted nature to conceive and cherish. They 
were all of one family ; they went to and fro 
between his breast and Ethan Brand’s, and car- 
ried dark greetings from one to the other. 

Then Bartram remembered the stories which 
had grown traditionary in reference to this 
strange man, who had come upon him like a 
shadow of the night, and was making himself 
at home in his old place, after so long absence, 
that the dead people, dead and buried for years, 
would have had more right to be at home, in 
any familiar spot, than he. Ethan Brand, it 
was said, had conversed with Satan himself in 
the lurid blaze of this very kiln. The legend 
had been matter of mirth heretofore, but looked 
grisly now. According to this tale, before Ethan 
Brand departed on his search, he had been ac- 
120 


ETHAN BRAND 


customed to evoke a fiend from the hot furnace 
of the lime-kiln, night after night, in order to 
confer with him about the Unpardonable Sin; 
the man and the fiend each laboring to frame 
the image of some mode of guilt which could 
neither be atoned for nor forgiven. And, with 
the first gleam of light upon the mountain-top, 
the fiend crept in at the iron door, there to 
abide the intensest element of fire until again 
summoned forth to share in the dreadful task 
of extending man's possible guilt beyond the 
scope of Heaven’s else infinite mercy. 

While the lime-burner was struggling with 
the horror of these thoughts, Ethan Brand rose 
from the log, and flung open the door of the 
kiln. The action was in such accordance with 
the idea in Bartram’s mind, that he almost 
expected to see the Evil One issue forth, red- 
hot, from the raging furnace. 

“ Hold ! hold! ” cried he, with a tremulous 
attempt to laugh ; for he was ashamed of his 
fears, although they overmastered him. “ Don’t, 
for mercy’s sake, bring out your Devil now ! ” 

“ Man ! ” sternly replied Ethan Brand, 
“ what need have I of the Devil ? I have left 
him behind me, on my track. It is with such 
halfway sinners as you that he busies himself. 
Fear not, because I open the door. I do but 
act by old custom, and am going to trim your 
fire like a lime-burner, as I was once.” 

121 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


He stirred the vast coals, thrust in more 
wood, and bent forward to gaze into the hollow 
prison house of the fire, regardless of the fierce 
glow that reddened upon his face. The lime- 
burner sat watching him, and half suspected this 
strange guest of a purpose, if not to evoke a 
fiend, at least to plunge bodily into the flames, 
and thus vanish from the sight of man. Ethan 
Brand, however, drew quietly back, and closed 
the door of the kiln. 

“ I have looked,” said he, “ into many a 
human heart that was seven times hotter with 
sinful passions than yonder furnace is with 
fire. But I found not there what I sought. 
No, not the Unpardonable Sin ! ” 

“What is the Unpardonable Sin?” asked 
the lime-burner ; and then he shrank farther 
from his companion, trembling lest his question 
should be answered. 

“It is a sin that grew within my own breast,” 
replied Ethan Brand, standing erect, with a 
pride that distinguishes all enthusiasts of his 
stamp. “ A sin that grew nowhere else ! The 
sin of an intellect that triumphed over the sense 
of brotherhood with man and reverence for God, 
and sacrificed everything to its own mighty 
claims ! The only sin that deserves a recom- 
pense of immortal agony ! Freely, were it to 
do again, would I incur the guilt. Unshrink- 
ingly I accept the retribution ! ” 

122 


ETHAN BRAND 


<c The man’s head is turned,” muttered the 
lime-burner to himself. “ He may be a sinner 
like the rest of us, — nothing more likely, — 
but, I ’ll be sworn, he is a madman too.” 

Nevertheless, he felt uncomfortable at his sit- 
uation, alone with Ethan Brand on the wild 
mountain-side, and was right glad to hear the 
rough murmur of tongues, and the footsteps of 
what seemed a pretty numerous party, stum- 
bling over the stones and rustling through the 
underbrush. Soon appeared the whole lazy 
regiment that was wont to infest the village tav- 
ern, comprehending three or four individuals 
who had drunk flip beside the bar-room fire 
through all the winters, and smoked their pipes 
beneath the stoop through all the summers, 
since Ethan Brand’s departure. Laughing bois- 
terously, and mingling all their voices together 
in unceremonious talk, they now burst into the 
moonshine and narrow streaks of firelight that 
illuminated the open space before the lime-kiln. 
Bartram set the door ajar again, flooding the 
spot with light, that the whole company might 
get a fair view of Ethan Brand, and he of them. 

There, among other old acquaintances, was a 
once ubiquitous man, now almost extinct, but 
whom we were formerly sure to encounter at 
the hotel of every thriving village throughout 
the country. It was the stage agent. The pre- 
sent specimen of the genus was a wilted and 
123 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

smoke-dried man, wrinkled and red-nosed, in a 
smartly cut, brown, bobtailed coat, with brass 
buttons, who, for a length of time unknown, had 
kept his desk and corner in the bar-room, and 
was still puffing what seemed to be the same 
cigar that he had lighted twenty years before. 
He had great fame as a dry joker, though, per- 
haps, less on account of any intrinsic humor 
than from a certain flavor of brandy toddy and 
tobacco smoke, which impregnated all his ideas 
and expressions, as well as his person. Another 
well-remembered, though strangely altered, face 
was that of Lawyer Giles, as people still called 
him in courtesy ; an elderly ragamuffin, in his 
soiled shirtsleeves and tow-cloth trousers. This 
poor fellow had been an attorney, in what he 
called his better days, a sharp practitioner, and 
in great vogue among the village litigants ; but 
flip, and sling, and toddy, and cocktails, im- 
bibed at all hours, morning, noon, and night, 
had caused him to slide from intellectual to 
various kinds and degrees of bodily labor, till 
at last, to adopt his own phrase, he slid into a 
soap-vat. In other words, Giles was now a soap- 
boiler, in a small way. He had come to be but 
the fragment of a human being, a part of one 
foot having been chopped off by an axe, and an 
entire hand torn away by the devilish grip of a 
steam-engine. Yet, though the corporeal hand 
was gone, a spiritual member remained ; for, 
124 


ETHAN BRAND 


stretching forth the stump, Giles steadfastly 
averred that he felt an invisible thumb and 
fingers with as vivid a sensation as before the 
real ones were amputated. A maimed and mis- 
erable wretch he was ; but one, nevertheless, 
whom the world could not trample on, and had 
no right to scorn, either in this or any previous 
stage of his misfortunes, since he had still kept 
up the courage and spirit of a man, asked no- 
thing in charity, and with his one hand — and 
that the left one — fought a stern battle against 
want and hostile circumstances. 

Among the throng, too, came another per- 
sonage, who, with certain points of similarity 
to Lawyer Giles, had many more of difference. 
It was the village doctor; a man of some fifty 
years, whom, at an earlier period of his life, we 
introduced as paying a professional visit to 
Ethan Brand during the latter’s supposed in- 
sanity. He was now a purple-visaged, rude, and 
brutal, yet half-gentlemanly figure, with some- 
thing wild, ruined, and desperate in his talk, and 
in all the details of his gesture and manners. 
Brandy possessed this man like an evil spirit, 
and made him as surly and savage as a wild 
beast, and as miserable as a lost soul ; but there 
was supposed to be in him such wonderful skill, 
such native gifts of healing, beyond any which 
medical science could impart, that society caught 
hold of him, and would not let him sink out 
125 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


of its reach. So, swaying to and fro upon his 
horse, and grumbling thick accents at the bed- 
side, he visited all the sick-chambers for miles 
about among the mountain towns, and some- 
times raised a dying man, as it were, by miracle, 
or quite as often, no doubt, sent his patient to 
a grave that was dug many a year too soon. The 
doctor had an everlasting pipe in his mouth, 
and, as somebody said, in allusion to his habit 
of swearing, it was always alight with hell-fire. 

These three worthies pressed forward, and 
greeted Ethan Brand each after his own fashion, 
earnestly inviting him to partake of the con- 
tents of a certain black bottle, in which, as they 
averred, he would find something far better 
worth seeking for than the Unpardonable Sin. 
No mind, which has wrought itself by intense 
and solitary meditation into a high state of en- 
thusiasm, can endure the kind of contact with 
low and vulgar modes of thought and feeling 
to which Ethan Brand was now subjected. It 
made him doubt — and, strange to say, it was 
a painful doubt — whether he had indeed found 
the Unpardonable Sin, and found it within him- 
self. The whole question on which he had 
exhausted life, and more than life, looked like 
a delusion. 

“ Leave me,” he said bitterly, <c ye brute 
beasts, that have made yourselves so, shrivelling 
up your souls with fiery liquors ! I have done 
126 


ETHAN BRAND 


with you. Years and years ago, I groped into 
your hearts and found nothing there for my 
purpose. Get ye gone ! ” 

“Why, you uncivil scoundrel,” cried the 
fierce doctor, “ is that the way you respond to 
the kindness of your best friends ? Then let 
me tell you the truth. You have no more 
found the Unpardonable Sin than yonder boy 
Joe has. You are but a crazy fellow, — I told 
you so twenty years ago, — neither better nor 
worse than a crazy fellow, and the fit companion 
of old Humphrey, here ! ” 

He pointed to an old man, shabbily dressed, 
with long white hair, thin visage, and unsteady 
eyes. For some years past this aged person had 
been wandering about among the hills, inquir- 
ing of all travellers whom he met for his daugh- 
ter. The girl, it seemed, had gone off with a 
company of circus performers, and occasionally 
tidings of her came to the village, and fine sto- 
ries were told of her glittering appearance as she 
rode on horseback in the ring, or performed 
marvellous feats on the tight-rope. 

The white-haired father now approached 
Ethan Brand, and gazed unsteadily into his 
face. 

“ They tell me you have been all over the 
earth,” said he, wringing his hands with earnest- 
ness. “ You must have seen my daughter, for 
she makes a grand figure in the world, and 
127 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


everybody goes to see her. Did she send any 
word to her old father, or say when she was 
coming back ? ” 

Ethan Brand's eye quailed beneath the old 
man's. That daughter, from whom he so ear- 
nestly desired a word of greeting, was the Es- 
ther of our tale, the very girl whom, with such 
cold and remorseless purpose, Ethan Brand had 
made the subject of a psychological experiment, 
and wasted, absorbed, and perhaps annihilated 
her soul, in the process. 

“ Yes," murmured he, turning away from the 
hoary wanderer, “ it is no delusion. There is 
an Unpardonable Sin ! " 

While these things were passing, a merry 
scene was going forward in the area of cheerful 
light, beside the spring and before the door of 
the hut. A number of the youth of the village, 
young men and girls, had hurried up the hill- 
side, impelled by curiosity to see Ethan Brand, 
the hero of so many a legend familiar to their 
childhood. Finding nothing, however, very 
remarkable in his aspect, — nothing but a sun- 
burnt wayfarer, in plain garb and dusty shoes, 
who sat looking into the fire as if he fancied 
pictures among the coals, — these young peo- 
ple speedily grew tired of observing him. As 
it happened, there was other amusement at 
hand. An old German Jew travelling with a 
diorama on his back, was passing down the 
128 


ETHAN BRAND 


mountain road towards the village just as the 
party turned aside from it, and, in hopes of 
eking out the profits of the day, the showman 
had kept them company to the lime-kiln. 

“ Come, old Dutchman,” cried one of the 
young men, “ let us see your pictures, if you 
can swear they are worth looking at ! ” 

“O yes. Captain,” answered the Jew, — 
whether as a matter of courtesy or craft, he 
styled everybody Captain, — “ I shall show 
you, indeed, some very superb pictures ! ” 

So, placing his box in a proper position, he 
invited the young men and girls to look through 
the glass orifices of the machine, and proceeded 
to exhibit a series of the most outrageous scratch- 
ings and daubings, as specimens of the fine arts, 
that ever an itinerant showman had the face to 
impose upon his circle of spectators. The pic- 
tures were worn out, moreover, tattered, full of 
cracks and wrinkles, dingy with tobacco smoke, 
and otherwise in a most pitiable condition. 
Some purported to be cities, public edifices, and 
ruined castles in Europe ; others represented 
Napoleon’s battles and Nelson’s sea fights ; 
and in the midst of these would be seen a gi- 
gantic, brown, hairy hand, — which might have 
been mistaken for the Hand of Destiny, though, 
in truth, it was only the showman’s, — point- 
ing its forefinger to various scenes of the con- 
flict, while its owner gave historical illustrations. 

129 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


When, with much merriment at its abominable 
deficiency of merit, the exhibition was con- 
cluded, the German bade little Joe put his 
head into the box. Viewed through the mag- 
nifying-glasses, the boy's round, rosy visage 
assumed the strangest imaginable aspect of an 
immense Titanic child, the mouth grinning 
broadly, and the eyes and every other feature 
overflowing with fun at the joke. Suddenly, 
however, that merry face turned pale, and its 
expression changed to horror, for this easily 
impressed and excitable child had become sen- 
sible that the eye of Ethan Brand was fixed 
upon him through the glass. 

“ You make the little man to be afraid, Cap- 
tain,” said the German Jew, turning up the dark 
and strong outline of his visage from his stoop- 
ing posture. “ But look again, and, by chance, 
I shall cause you to see somewhat that is very 
fine, upon my word ! ” 

Ethan Brand gazed into the box for an in- 
stant, and then starting back, looked fixedly at 
the German. What had he seen ? Nothing, 
apparently ; for a curious youth, who had peeped 
in almost at the same moment, beheld only a 
vacant space of canvas. 

“ I remember you now,” muttered Ethan 
Brand to the showman. 

“Ah, Captain,” whispered the Jew of Nu- 
remberg, with a dark smile, “ I find it to be a 
130 


ETHAN BRAND 


heavy matter in my showbox, — this U npar- 
donable Sin ! By my faith, Captain, it has 
wearied my shoulders, this long day, to carry 
it over the mountain.” 

“ Peace,” answered Ethan Brand sternly, “ or 
get thee into the furnace yonder ! ” 

The Jew’s exhibition had scarcely concluded, 
when a great, elderly dog — who seemed to be 
his own master, as no person in the company 
laid claim to him — saw fit to render himself 
the object of public notice. Hitherto, he had 
shown himself a very quiet, well-disposed old 
dog, going round from one to another, and, 
by way of being sociable, offering his rough 
head to be patted by any kindly hand that 
would take so much trouble. But now, all of 
a sudden, this grave and venerable quadruped, 
of his own mere motion, and without the slight- 
est suggestion from anybody else, began to run 
round after his tail, which, to heighten the 
absurdity of the proceeding, was a great deal 
shorter than it should have been. Never was 
seen such headlong eagerness in pursuit of an 
object that could not possibly be attained; 
never was heard such a tremendous outbreak 
of growling, snarling, barking, and snapping, — 
as if one end of the ridiculous brute’s body 
were at deadly and most unforgivable enmity 
with the other. Faster and faster, round about 
went the cur ; and faster and still faster fled the 
I 3 I 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


unapproachable brevity of his tail ; and louder 
and fiercer grew his yells of rage and animos- 
ity; until, utterly exhausted, and as far from 
the goal as ever, the foolish old dog ceased his 
performance as suddenly as he had begun it. 
The next moment he was as mild, quiet, sensi- 
ble, and respectable in his deportment, as when 
he first scraped acquaintance with the com- 
pany. 

As may be supposed, the exhibition was 
greeted with universal laughter, clapping of 
hands, and shouts of encore, to which the 
canine performer responded by wagging all that 
there was to wag of his tail, but appeared to- 
tally unable to repeat his very successful effort 
to amuse the spectators. 

Meanwhile, Ethan Brand had resumed his 
seat upon the log, and moved, it might be, by 
a perception of some remote analogy between 
his own case and that of this self-pursuing cur, 
he broke into the awful laugh which, more 
than any other token, expressed the condition 
of his inward being. From that moment, the 
merriment of the party was at an end; they 
stood aghast, dreading lest the inauspicious 
sound should be reverberated around the hori- 
zon, and that mountain would thunder it to 
mountain, and so the horror be prolonged upon 
their ears. Then, whispering one to another 
that it was late, — that the moon was almost 
132 


ETHAN BRAND 


down, — that the August night was growing 
chill, — they hurried homewards, leaving the 
lime-burner and little Joe to deal as they might 
with their unwelcome guest. Save for these 
three human beings, the open space on the 
hillside was a solitude, set in a vast gloom of 
forest. Beyond that darksome verge, the fire- 
light glimmered on the stately trunks and al- 
most black foliage of pines, intermixed with the 
lighter verdure of sapling oaks, maples, and 
poplars, while here and there lay the gigantic 
corpses of dead trees, decaying on the leaf- 
strewn soil. And it seemed to little Joe — a 
timorous and imaginative child — that the si- 
lent forest was holding its breath until some 
fearful thing should happen. 

Ethan Brand thrust more wood into the fire, 
and closed the door of the kiln ; then looking 
over his shoulder at the lime-burner and his 
son, he bade, rather than advised, them to retire 
to rest. 

“ For myself, I cannot sleep,” said he. “ I 
have matters that it concerns me to meditate 
upon. I will watch the fire, as I used to do in 
the old time.” 

“ And call the Devil out of the furnace to 
keep you company, I suppose,” muttered Bar- 
tram, who had been making intimate acquaint- 
ance with the black bottle above mentioned. 
“ But watch, if you like, and call as many devils 
?33 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


as you like! For my part, I shall be all the 
better for a snooze. Come, Joe ! ” 

As the boy followed his father into the hut, 
he looked back at the wayfarer, and the tears 
came into his eyes, for his tender spirit had an 
intuition of the bleak and terrible loneliness in 
which this man had enveloped himself. 

When they had gone, Ethan Brand sat listen- 
ing to the crackling of the kindled wood, and 
looking at the little spirts of fire that issued 
through the chinks of the door. These trifles, 
however, once so familiar, had but the slightest 
hold of his attention, while deep within his 
mind he was reviewing the gradual but marvel- 
lous change that had been wrought upon him 
by the search to which he had devoted himself. 
He remembered how the night dew had fallen 
upon him, — how the dark forest had whispered 
to him, — how the stars had gleamed upon him, 
— a simple and loving man, watching his fire 
in the years gone by, and ever musing as it 
burned. He remembered with what tenderness, 
with what love and sympathy for mankind, and 
what pity for human guilt and woe, he had first 
begun to contemplate those ideas which after- 
wards became the inspiration of his life ; with 
what reverence he had then looked into the 
heart of man, viewing it as a temple originally 
divine, and, however desecrated, still to be held 
sacred by a brother ; with what awful fear he 
*34 


ETHAN BRAND 


had deprecated the success of his pursuit, and 
prayed that the Unpardonable Sin might never 
be revealed to him. Then ensued that vast in- 
tellectual development, which, in its progress, 
disturbed the counterpoise between his mind 
and heart. The Idea that possessed his life 
had operated as a means of education ; it had 
gone on cultivating his powers to the highest 
point of which they were susceptible ; it had 
raised him from the level of an unlettered la- 
borer to stand on a star-lit eminence, whither 
the philosophers of the earth, laden with the 
lore of universities, might vainly strive to clam- 
ber after him. So much for the intellect ! But 
where was the heart ? That, indeed, had with- 
ered, — had contracted, — had hardened, — had 
perished ! It had ceased to partake of the uni- 
versal throb. He had lost his hold of the mag- 
netic chain of humanity. He was no longer a 
brother-man, opening the chambers or the dun- 
geons of our common nature by the key of holy 
sympathy, which gave him a right to share in 
all its secrets ; he was now a cold observer, look- 
ing on mankind as the subject of his exper- 
iment, and, at length, converting man and 
woman to be his puppets, and pulling the wires 
that moved them to such degrees of crime as 
were demanded for his study. 

Thus Ethan Brand became a fiend. He 
began to be so from the moment that his moral 
*35 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


nature had ceased to keep the pace of improve- 
ment with his intellect. And now, as his high- 
est effort and inevitable development, — as the 
bright and gorgeous flower, and rich, delicious 
fruit of his life's labor, — he had produced the 
Unpardonable Sin ! 

“ What more have I to seek ? what more to 
achieve ? ” said Ethan Brand to himself. “ My 
task is done, and well done ! ” 

Starting from the log with a certain alacrity 
in his gait and ascending the hillock of earth 
that was raised against the stone circumference 
of the lime-kiln, he thus reached the top of the 
structure. It was a space of perhaps ten feet 
across, from edge to edge, presenting a view of 
the upper surface of the immense mass of broken 
marble with which the kiln was heaped. All 
these innumerable blocks and fragments of mar- 
ble were red-hot and vividly on fire, sending up 
great spouts of blue flame, which quivered aloft 
and danced madly, as within a magic circle, and 
sank and rose again, with continual and multi- 
tudinous activity. As the lonely man bent for- 
ward over this terrible body of fire, the blasting 
heat smote up against his person with a breath 
that, it might be supposed, would have scorched 
and shrivelled him up in a moment. 

Ethan Brand stood erect, and raised his arms 
on high. The blue flames played upon his face, 
and imparted the wild and ghastly light which 
136 


ETHAN BRAND 


alone could have suited its expression ; it was 
that of a fiend on the verge of plunging into his 
gulf of intensest torment. 

“ O Mother Earth/’ cried he, “ who art no 
more my Mother, and into whose bosom this 
frame shall never be resolved ! O mankind, 
whose brotherhood I have cast off, and trampled 
thy great heart beneath my feet ! O stars of 
heaven, that shone on me of old, as if to light 
me onward and upward ! — farewell all, and for- 
ever. Come, deadly element of Fire, — hence- 
forth my familiar friend ! Embrace me, as I do 
thee!” 

That night the sound of a fearful peal of 
laughter rolled heavily through the sleep of the 
lime-burner and his little son ; dim shapes of 
horror and anguish haunted their dreams, and 
seemed still present in the rude hovel, when 
they opened their eyes to the daylight. 

“ Up, boy, up ! ” cried the lime-burner, star- 
ing about him. <c Thank Heaven, the night is 
gone, at last ; and rather than pass such another, 
I would watch my lime-kiln, wide awake, for 
a twelvemonth. This Ethan Brand, with his 
humbug of an Unpardonable Sin, has done me 
no such mighty favor, in taking my place ! ” 

He issued from the hut, followed by little 
Joe, who kept fast hold of his father’s hand. 
The early sunshine was already pouring its gold 
upon the mountain-tops, and though the valleys 
I 37 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


were still in shadow, they smiled cheerfully in 
the promise of the bright day that was hasten- 
ing onward. The village, completely shut in 
by hills, which swelled away gently about it, 
looked as if it had rested peacefully in the hol- 
low of the great hand of Providence. Every 
dwelling was distinctly visible ; the little spires 
of the two churches pointed upwards, and caught 
a fore-glimmering of brightness from the sun- 
gilt skies upon their gilded weather-cocks. The 
tavern was astir, and the figure of the old, 
smoke-dried stage agent, cigar in mouth, was 
seen beneath the stoop. Old Graylock was 
glorified with a golden cloud upon his head. 
Scattered likewise over the breasts of the sur- 
rounding mountains, there were heaps of hoary 
mist, in fantastic shapes, some of them far down 
into the valley, others high up towards the sum- 
mits, and still others, of the same family of mist 
or cloud, hovering in the gold radiance of the 
upper atmosphere. Stepping from one to an- 
other of the clouds that rested on the hills, and 
thence to the loftier brotherhood that sailed in 
air, it seemed almost as if a mortal man might 
thus ascend into the heavenly regions. Earth 
was so mingled with sky that it was a day-dream 
to look at it. 

To supply that charm of the familiar and 
homely, which Nature so readily adopts into a 
scene like this, the stage-coach was rattling down 


“ Farewell all , and forever ” 
















AV3Yvi\W& ,\\fc \\ V4BVU& * » 






































‘ 




































































ETHAN BRAND 


the mountain road, and the driver sounded his 
horn, while Echo caught up the notes, and 
intertwined them into a rich and varied and 
elaborate harmony, of which the original per- 
former could lay claim to little share. The 
great hills played a concert among themselves, 
each contributing a strain of airy sweetness. 

Little Joe’s face brightened at once. 

“ Dear father,” cried he, skipping cheerily 
to and fro, “ that strange man is gone, and the 
sky and the mountains all seem glad of it ! ” 

cc Yes,” growled the lime-burner with an 
oath, <c but he has let the fire go down, and no 
thanks to him if five hundred bushels of lime 
are not spoiled. If I catch the fellow hereabouts 
again, I shall feel like tossing him into the 
furnace ! ” 

With his long pole in his hand, he ascended 
to the top of the kiln. After a moment’s pause, 
he called to his son. 

“ Come up here, Joe ! ” said he. 

So little Joe ran up the hillock, and stood 
by his father’s side. The marble was all burnt 
into perfect, snow-white lime. But on its sur- 
face, in the midst of the circle, — snow-white 
too, and thoroughly converted into lime, — lay 
a human skeleton, in the attitude of a person 
who, after long toil, lies down to long repose. 
Within the ribs — strange to say — was the 
shape of a human heart. 

139 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

“Was the fellow’s heart made of marble?” 
cried Bartram, in some perplexity at this phe- 
nomenon. “ At any rate, it is burnt into what 
looks like special good lime ; and, taking all 
the bones together, my kiln is half a bushel the 
richer for him.” 

So saying, the rude lime-burner lifted his 
pole, and, letting it fall upon the skeleton, the 
relics of Ethan Brand were crumbled into frag- 
ments. 


140 


A BELL’S BIOGRAPHY 


H EARKEN to our neighbor with the 
iron tongue. While I sit musing over 
my sheet of foolscap, he emphatically 
tells the hour, in tones loud enough for all the 
town to hear, though doubtless intended only 
as a gentle hint to myself, that I may begin his 
biography before the evening shall be further 
wasted. Unquestionably a personage in such 
an elevated position, and making so great a 
noise in the world, has a fair claim to the ser- 
vices of a biographer. He is the representative 
and most illustrious member of that innumer- 
able class, whose characteristic feature is the 
tongue, and whose sole business, to clamor for 
the public good. If any of his noisy brethren, 
in our tongue-governed democracy, be envious 
of the superiority which I have assigned him, 
they have my free consent to hang themselves 
as high as he. And, for his history, let not 
the reader apprehend an empty repetition of 
ding-dong-bell. He has been the passive hero 
of wonderful vicissitudes, with which I have 
chanced to become acquainted, possibly from 
his own mouth ; while the careless multitude 
supposed him to be talking merely of the time 
141 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


of day, or calling them to dinner or to church, 
or bidding drowsy people go bedward, or the 
dead to their graves. Many a revolution has 
it been his fate to go through, and invariably 
with a prodigious uproar. And whether or no 
he have told me his reminiscences, this at least 
is true, that the more I study his deep-toned 
language, the more sense, and sentiment, and 
soul, do I discover in it. 

This bell — for we may as well drop our 
quaint personification — is of antique French 
manufacture, and the symbol of the cross be- 
tokens that it was meant to be suspended in the 
belfry of a Romish place of worship. The old 
people hereabout have a tradition, that a con- 
siderable part of the metal was supplied by a 
brass cannon, captured in one of the victories 
of Louis the Fourteenth over the Spaniards, 
and that a Bourbon princess threw her golden 
crucifix into the molten mass. It is said, like- 
wise, that a bishop baptized and blessed the 
bell, and prayed that a heavenly influence 
might mingle with its tones. When all due 
ceremonies had been performed, the Grand 
Monarque bestowed the gift — than which none 
could resound his beneficence more loudly — 
on the Jesuits, who were then converting the 
American Indians to the spiritual dominion of 
the Pope. So the bell, — our selfsame bell, 
whose familiar voice we may hear at all hours, 
142 


A BELL’S BIOGRAPHY 

in the streets, — this very bell sent forth its 
first-born accents from the tower of a log-built 
chapel, westward of Lake Champlain, and rfear 
the mighty stream of the St. Lawrence. It was 
called Our Lady’s Chapel of the Forest. The 
peal went forth as if to redeem and consecrate 
the heathen wilderness. The wolf growled at 
the sound, as he prowled stealthily through the 
underbrush; the grim bear turned his back, 
and stalked sullenly away ; the startled doe 
leaped up, and led her fawn into a deeper soli- 
tude. The red men wondered what awful voice 
was speaking amid the wind that roared through 
the tree-tops ; and, following reverentially its 
summons, the dark-robed fathers blessed them 
as they drew near the cross-crowned chapel. In 
a little time, there was a crucifix on every dusky 
bosom. The Indians knelt beneath the lowly 
roof, worshipping in the same forms that were 
observed under the vast dome of St. Peter’s, 
when the Pope performed high mass in the pre- 
sence of kneeling princes. All the religious 
festivals, that awoke the chiming bells of lofty 
cathedrals, called forth a peal from Our Lady’s 
Chapel of the Forest. Loudly rang the bell 
of the wilderness while the streets of Paris 
echoed with rejoicings for the birthday of the 
Bourbon, or whenever France had triumphed 
on some European battlefield. And the solemn 
woods were saddened with a melancholy knell, 
H3 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


as often as the thick-strewn leaves were swept 
away from the virgin soil, for the burial of an 
Indian chief. 

Meantime, the bells of a hostile people 
and a hostile faith were ringing on Sabbaths 
and lecture-days, at Boston and other Puritan 
towns. Their echoes died away hundreds of 
miles southeastward of Our Lady's Chapel. 
But scouts had threaded the pathless desert 
that lay between, and, from behind the huge 
tree-trunks, perceived the Indians assembling 
at the summons of the bell. Some bore flaxen- 
haired scalps at their girdles, as if to lay those 
bloody trophies on Our Lady's altar. It was 
reported, and believed, all through New Eng- 
land, that the Pope of Rome and the King of 
France had established this little chapel in the 
forest, for the purpose of stirring up the red 
men to a crusade against the English settlers. 
The latter took energetic measures to secure 
their religion and their lives. On the eve of 
an especial fast of the Romish Church, while 
the bell tolled dismally, and the priests were 
chanting a doleful stave, a band of New 
England rangers rushed from the surrounding 
woods. Fierce shouts, and the report of mus- 
ketry, pealed suddenly within the chapel. The 
ministering priests threw themselves before the 
altar, and were slain even on its steps. If, as 
antique traditions tell us, no grass will grow 
144 


A BELL’S BIOGRAPHY 


where the blood of martyrs has been shed, there 
should be a barren spot, to this very day, on 
the site of that desecrated altar. 

While the blood was still plashing from step 
to step, the leader of the rangers seized a torch, 
and applied it to the drapery of the shrine. 
The flame and smoke arose, as from a burnt 
sacrifice, at once illuminating and obscuring the 
whole interior of the chapel, — now hiding the 
dead priests in a sable shroud, now revealing 
them and their slayers in one terrific glare. 
Some already wished that the altar smoke could 
cover the deed from the sight of Heaven. But 
one of the rangers — a man of sanctified aspect, 
though his hands were bloody — approached 
the captain. 

“ Sir,” said he, cc our village meeting-house 
lacks a bell, and hitherto we have been fain to 
summon the good people to worship by beat 
of drum. Give me, I pray you, the bell of this 
popish chapel, for the sake of the godly Mr. 
Rogers, who doubtless hath remembered us in 
the prayers of the congregation ever since we 
began our march. Who can tell what share of 
this night’s good success we owe to that holy 
man’s wrestling with the Lord ? ” 

“ Nay, then,” answered the captain, “ if good 
Mr. Rogers hath holpen our enterprise, it is 
right that he should share the spoil. Take the 
bell and welcome, Deacon Lawson, if you will 
i45 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


be at the trouble of carrying it home. Hitherto 
it hath spoken nothing but papistry, and that 
too in the French or Indian gibberish ; but I 
warrant me, if Mr. Rogers consecrate it anew, 
it will talk like a good English and Protestant 
bell. ,> 

So Deacon Lawson and a half a score of his 
townsmen took down the bell, suspended it on 
a pole, and bore it away on their sturdy shoul- 
ders, meaning to carry it to the shore of Lake 
Champlain, and thence homeward by water. 
Far through the woods gleamed the flames of 
Our Lady’s Chapel, flinging fantastic shadows 
from the clustered foliage, and glancing on 
brooks that had never caught the sunlight. As 
the rangers traversed the midnight forest, stag- 
gering under their heavy burden, the tongue 
of the bell gave many a tremendous stroke, — 
clang, clang, clang ! — a most doleful sound, as 
if it were tolling for the slaughter of the priests 
and the ruin of the chapel. Little dreamed 
Deacon Lawson and his townsmen that it was 
their own funeral knell. A war party of In- 
dians had heard the report of musketry, and 
seen the blaze of the chapel, and now were on 
the track of the rangers, summoned to ven- 
geance by the bell’s dismal murmurs. In the 
midst of a deep swamp, they made a sudden 
onset on the retreating foe. Good Deacon Law- 
son battled stoutly, but had his skull cloven 
146 


A BELL’S BIOGRAPHY 


by a tomahawk, and sank into the depths of 
the morass, with the ponderous bell above him. 
And, for many a year thereafter, our hero’s 
voice was heard no more on earth, neither at the 
hour of worship, nor at festivals nor funerals. 

And is he still buried in that unknown grave? 
Scarcely so, dear reader. Hark! How plainly 
we hear him at this moment, the spokesman 
of Time, proclaiming that it is nine o’clock at 
night ! We may therefore safely conclude that 
some happy chance has restored him to upper 
air. 

But there lay the bell, for many silent years ; 
and the wonder is that he did not lie silent there 
a century, or perhaps a dozen centuries, till the 
world should have forgotten not only his voice, 
but the voices of the whole brotherhood of 
bells. How would the first accent oP his iron 
tongue have startled his resurrectionists ! But 
he was not fated to be a subject of discussion 
among the antiquaries of far posterity. Near 
the close of the Old French War, a party 
of New England axe-men, who preceded the 
march of Colonel Bradstreet toward Lake On- 
tario, were building a bridge of logs through a 
swamp. Plunging down a stake, one of these 
pioneers felt it graze against some hard, smooth 
substance. He called his comrades, and, by 
their united efforts, the top of the bell was raised 
to the surface, a rope made fast to it, and thence 
J 47 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


passed over the horizontal limb of a tree. 
Heave-ho ! up they hoisted their prize, drip- 
ping with moisture, and festooned with verdant 
water-moss. As the base of the bell emerged 
from the swamp, the pioneers perceived that a 
skeleton was clinging with its bony fingers to 
the clapper, but immediately relaxing its nerve- 
less grasp, sank back into the stagnant water. 
The bell then gave forth a sullen clang. No 
wonder that he was in haste to speak, after hold- 
ing his tongue for such a length of time! The 
pioneers shoved the bell to and fro, thus ring- 
ing a loud and heavy peal, which echoed widely 
through the forest, and reached the ears of 
Colonel Bradstreet and his three thousand men. 
The soldiers paused on their march ; a feel- 
ing of religion, mingled with home-tenderness, 
overpowered their rude hearts; each seemed 
to hear the clangor of the old church bell which 
had been familiar to him from infancy, and had 
tolled at the funerals of all his forefathers. By 
what magic had that holy sound strayed over 
the wide-murmuring ocean, and become audi- 
ble amid the clash of arms, the loud crashing 
of the artillery over the rough wilderness-path, 
and the melancholy roar of the wind among the 
boughs ? 

The New Englanders hid their prize in a 
shadowy nook, betwixt a large gray stone and 
the earthy roots of an overthrown tree ; and 

148 


A BELL’S BIOGRAPHY 


when the campaign was ended, they conveyed our 
friend to Boston, and put him up at auction on 
the sidewalk of King Street. He was suspended, 
for the nonce, by a block and tackle, and, being 
swung backward and forward, gave such loud 
and clear testimony to his own merits that the 
auctioneer had no need to say a word. The 
highest bidder was a rich old representative from 
our town, who piously bestowed the bell on 
the meeting-house where he had been a wor- 
shipper for half a century. The good man had 
his reward. By a strange coincidence, the very 
first duty of the sexton, after the bell had been 
hoisted into the belfry, was to toll the funeral 
knell of the donor. Soon, however, those dole- 
ful echoes were drowned by a triumphant peal 
for the surrender of Quebec. 

Ever since that period, our hero has occupied 
the same elevated station, and has put in his 
word on all matters of public importance, civil, 
military, or religious. On the day when Inde- 
pendence was first proclaimed in the street be- 
neath, he uttered a peal which many deemed 
ominous and fearful, rather than triumphant. 
But he has told the same story these sixty years, 
and none mistake his meaning now. When 
Washington, in the fulness of his glory, rode 
through our flower-strewn streets, this was the 
tongue that bade the Father of his Country wel- 
come ! Again the same voice was heard, when 
149 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

Lafayette came to gather in his half-century’s 
harvest of gratitude. Meantime, vast changes 
have been going on below. His voice, which 
once floated over a little provincial seaport, is 
now reverberated between brick edifices, and 
strikes the ear amid the buzz and tumult of a 
city. On the Sabbaths of olden time, the sum- 
mons of the bell was obeyed by a picturesque 
and varied throng : stately gentlemen in purple 
velvet coats, embroidered waistcoats, white wigs, 
and gold-laced hats, stepping with grave cour- 
tesy beside ladies in flowered satin gowns, and 
hoop-petticoats of majestic circumference ; while 
behind followed a liveried slave or bondsman, 
bearing the psalm-book, and a stove for his mis- 
tress’s feet. The commonalty, clad in homely 
garb, gave precedence to their betters at the 
door of the meeting-house, as if admitting that 
there were distinctions between them, even in 
the sight of God. Yet, as their coffins were 
borne one after another through the street, the 
bell has tolled a requiem for all alike. What 
mattered it whether or no there were a silver 
scutcheon on the coffin lid? “ Open thy bosom, 
Mother Earth ! ” Thus spake the bell. “ An- 
other of thy children is coming to his long rest. 
Take him to thy boson, and let him slumber 
in peace.” Thus spake the bell, and Mother 
Earth received her child. With the selfsame 
tones will the present generation be ushered to 
150 


A BELL’S BIOGRAPHY 


the embraces of their mother; and Mother 
Earth will still receive her children. Is not thy 
tongue a-weary, mournful talker of two cen- 
turies ? O funeral bell ! wilt thou never be 
shattered with thine own melancholy strokes ? 
Yea, and a trumpet-call shall arouse the sleep- 
ers whom thy heavy clang could awake no 
more ! 

Again — again thy voice, reminding me that 
I am wasting the “ midnight oil.” In my 
lonely fantasy, I can scarce believe that other 
mortals have caught the sound, or that it vi- 
brates elsewhere than in my secret soul. But 
to many hast thou spoken. Anxious men have 
heard thee on their sleepless pillows, and be- 
thought themselves anew of to-morrow’s care. 
In a brief interval of wakefulness, the sons of 
toil have heard thee, and say, “ Is so much of 
our quiet slumber spent ? — is the morning so 
near at hand ? ” Crime has heard thee, and 
mutters, “Now is the very hour!” Despair 
answers thee, “ Thus much of this weary life 
is gone ! ” The young mother, on her bed 
of pain and ecstasy, has counted thy echoing 
strokes, and dates from them her first-born’s 
share of life and immortality. The bridegroom 
and the bride have listened, and feel that their 
night of rapture flits like a dream away. Thine 
accents have fallen faintly on the ear of the dy- 
ing man, and warned him that, ere thou speakest 

151 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


again, his spirit shall have passed whither no 
voice of time can ever reach. Alas for the de- 
parting traveller, if thy voice — the voice of 
fleeting time — have taught him no lessons for 
Eternity ! 


152 


SYLPH ETHEREGE 


O N a bright summer evening, two per- 
sons stood among the shrubbery of a 
garden, stealthily watching a young 
girl who sat in the window-seat of a neighboring 
mansion. One of these unseen observers, a 
gentleman, was youthful, and had an air of high 
breeding and refinement, and a face marked 
with intellect, though otherwise of unprepos- 
sessing aspect. His features wore even an 
ominous, though somewhat mirthful expres- 
sion, while he pointed his long forefinger at the 
girl, and seemed to regard her as a creature 
completely within the scope of his influence. 

“ The charm works ! ” said he, in a low but 
emphatic whisper. 

“ Do you know, Edward Hamilton, — since 
so you choose to be named, — do you know,” 
said the lady beside him, <c that I have almost a 
mind to break the spell at once ? What if the 
lesson should prove too severe ! True, if my 
ward could be thus laughed out of her fantastic 
nonsense, she might be the better for it through 
life. But then, she is such a delicate creature ! 
And, besides, are you not ruining your own 
*53 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


chance by putting forward this shadow of a 
rival ? ” 

“ But will he not vanish into thin air, at my 
bidding ? ” rejoined Edward Hamilton. “ Let 
the charm work ! ” 

The girl’s slender and sylph-like figure, 
tinged with radiance from the sunset clouds, 
and overhung with the rich drapery of the silken 
curtains, and set within the deep frame of the 
window, was a perfect picture ; or, rather, it was 
like the original loveliness in a painter’s fancy, 
from which the most finished picture is but an 
imperfect copy. Though her occupation excited 
so much interest in the two spectators, she was 
merely gazing at a miniature which she held 
in her hand, encased in white satin and red 
morocco ; nor did there appear to be any other 
cause for the smile of mockery and malice with 
which Hamilton regarded her. 

<c The charm works ! ” muttered he again. 
“ Our pretty Sylvia’s scorn will have a dear 
retribution ! ” 

At this moment the girl raised her eyes, and, 
instead of a lifelike semblance of the minia- 
ture, beheld the ill-omened shape of Edward 
Hamilton, who now stepped forth from his 
concealment in the shrubbery. 

Sylvia Etherege was an orphan girl, who had 
spent her life, till within a few months past, 
under the guardianship, and in the secluded 
154 


SYLPH ETHEREGE 


dwelling, of an old bachelor uncle. While yet 
in her cradle, she had been the destined bride 
of a cousin, who was no less passive in the be- 
trothal than herself. Their future union had 
been projected, as the means of uniting two 
rich estates, and was rendered highly expedient, 
if not indispensable, by the testamentary dis- 
positions of the parents on both sides. Edgar 
Vaughan, the promised bridegroom, had been 
bred from infancy in Europe, and had never 
seen the beautiful girl whose heart he was to 
claim as his inheritance. But already, for sev- 
eral years, a correspondence had been kept up 
between the cousins, and had produced an intel- 
lectual intimacy, though it could but imperfectly 
acquaint them with each other's character. 

Sylvia was shy, sensitive, and fanciful ; and 
her guardian’s secluded habits had shut her out 
from even so much of the world as is generally 
open to maidens of her age. She had been left 
to seek associates and friends for herself in the 
haunts of imagination, and to converse with 
them, sometimes in the language of dead poets, 
oftener in the poetry of her own mind. The 
companion whom she chiefly summoned up was 
the cousin with whose idea her earliest thoughts 
had been connected. She made a vision of Ed- 
gar Vaughan, and tinted it with stronger hues 
than a mere fancy-picture, yet graced it with so 
many bright and delicate perfections, that her 
155 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


cousin could nowhere have encountered so dan- 
gerous a rival. To this shadow she cherished 
a romantic fidelity. With its airy presence sit- 
ting by her side, or gliding along her favorite 
paths, the loneliness of her young life was bliss- 
ful ; her heart was satisfied with love, while yet 
its virgin purity was untainted by the earthli- 
ness that the touch of a real lover would have 
left there. Edgar Vaughan seemed to be con- 
scious of her character ; for, in his letters, he 
gave her a name that was happily appropriate 
to the sensitiveness of her disposition, the deli- 
cate peculiarity of her manners, and the ethe- 
real beauty both of her mind and person. In- 
stead of Sylvia, he called her Sylph, — with the 
prerogative of' a cousin and a lover, — his dear 
Sylph Etherege. 

When Sylvia was seventeen, her guardian 
died, and she passed under the care of Mrs. 
Grosvenor, a lady of wealth and fashion, and 
Sylvia's nearest relative, though a distant one. 
While an inmate of Mrs. Grosvenor’s family, 
she still preserved somewhat of her life-long 
habits of seclusion, and shrank from a too fa- 
miliar intercourse with those around her. Still, 
too, she was faithful to her cousin, or to the 
shadow which bore his name. 

The time now drew near when Edgar 
Vaughan, whose education had been completed 
by an extensive range of travel, was to revisit 
156 


SYLPH ETHEREGE 


the soil of his nativity. Edward Hamilton, a 
young gentleman who had been Vaughan’s 
companion, both in his studies and rambles, 
had already recrossed the Atlantic, bringing let- 
ters to Mrs. Grosvenor and Sylvia Etherege. 
These credentials insured him an earnest wel- 
come, which, however, on Sylvia’s part, was 
not followed by personal partiality, or even the 
regard that seemed due to her cousin’s most 
intimate friend. As she herself could have 
assigned no cause for her repugnance, it might 
be termed instinctive. Hamilton’s person, it 
is true, was the reverse of attractive, especially 
when beheld for the first time. Yet, in the 
eyes of the most fastidious judges, the defect of 
natural grace was compensated by the polish of 
his manners, and by the intellect which so often 
gleamed through his dark features. Mrs. Gros- 
venor, with whom he immediately became a 
prodigious favorite, exerted herself to overcome 
Sylvia’s dislike. But, in this matter, her ward 
could neither be reasoned with nor persuaded. 
The presence of Edward Hamilton was sure to 
render her cold, shy, and distant, abstracting all 
the vivacity from her deportment, as if a cloud 
had come betwixt her and the sunshine. 

The simplicity of Sylvia’s demeanor rendered 
it easy for so keen an observer as Hamilton to 
detect her feelings. Whenever any slight cir- 
cumstance made him sensible of them, a smile 
l S7 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


might be seen to flit over the young man’s 
sallow visage. None, that had once beheld 
this smile, were in any danger of forgetting it ; 
whenever they recalled to memory the features 
of Edward Hamilton, they were always duskily 
illuminated by this expression of mockery and 
malice. 

In a few weeks after Hamilton’s arrival, he 
presented to Sylvia Etherege a miniature of her 
cousin, which, as he informed her, would have 
been delivered sooner, but was detained with a 
portion of his baggage. This was the miniature 
in the contemplation of which we beheld Sylvia 
so absorbed, at the commencement of our story. 
Such, in truth, was too often the habit of the 
shy and musing girl. The beauty of the pic- 
tured countenance was almost too perfect to re- 
represent a human creature, that had been born 
of a fallen and world-worn race, and had lived 
to manhood amid ordinary troubles and enjoy- 
ments, and must become wrinkled with age and 
care. It seemed too bright for a thing formed of 
dust, and doomed to crumble into dust again. 
Sylvia feared that such a being would be too 
refined and delicate to love a simple girl like 
her. Yet, even while her spirit drooped with 
that apprehension, the picture was but the mas- 
culine counterpart of’ Sylph Etherege’s sylph- 
like beauty. There was that resemblance be- 
tween her own face and the miniature which is 
158 


SYLPH ETHEREGE 


said often to exist between lovers whom Heaven 
has destined for each other, and which, in this 
instance, might be owing to the kindred blood 
of the two parties. Sylvia felt, indeed, that there 
was something familiar in the countenance, so 
like a friend did the eyes smile upon her, and 
seem to imply a knowledge of her thoughts. 
She could account for this impression only by 
supposing that, in some of her day-dreams, im- 
agination had conjured up the true similitude 
of her distant and unseen lover. 

But now could Sylvia give a brighter sem- 
blance of reality to those day-dreams. Clasping 
the miniature to her heart, she could summon 
forth, from that haunted cell of pure and bliss- 
ful fantasies, the lifelike shadow, to roam with 
her in the moonlit garden. Even at noon- 
tide it sat with her in the arbor, when the sun- 
shine threw its broken flakes of gold into the 
clustering shade. The effect upon her mind 
was hardly less powerful than if she had actu- 
ally listened to, and reciprocated, the vows of 
Edgar Vaughan ; for, though the illusion never 
quite deceived her, yet the remembrance was as 
distinct as of a remembered interview. Those 
heavenly eyes gazed forever into her soul, which 
drank at them as at a fountain, and was dis- 
quieted if reality threw a momentary cloud be- 
tween. She heard the melody of a voice breath- 
ing sentiments with which her own chimed in 
159 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


like music. O happy, yet hapless girl ! Thus 
to create the being whom she loves, to endow 
him with all the attributes that were most fas- 
cinating to her heart, and then to flit with the 
airy creature into the realm of fantasy and 
moonlight where dwelt his dreamy kindred ! 
For her lover wiled Sylvia away from earth, 
which seemed strange, and dull, and darksome, 
and lured her to a country where her spirit 
roamed in peaceful rapture, deeming that it had 
found its home. Many, in their youth, have 
visited that land of dreams, and wandered so 
long in its enchanted groves that, when ban- 
ished thence, they feel like exiles everywhere. 

The dark-browed Edward Hamilton, like the 
villain of a tale, would often glide through the 
romance wherein poor Sylvia walked. Some- 
times, at the most blissful moment of her ec- 
stasy, when the features of the miniature were 
pictured brightest in the air, they would sud- 
denly change, and darken, and be transformed 
into his visage. And always, when such change 
occurred, the intrusive visage wore that pecul-* 
iar smile with which Hamilton had glanced at 
Sylvia. 

Before the close of summer, it was told Syl- 
via Etherege that Vaughan had arrived from 
France, and that she would meet him — would 
meet, for the first time, the loved of years — 
that very evening. We will not tell how often 
160 


SYLPH ETHEREGE 


and how earnestly she gazed upon the minia- 
ture, thus endeavoring to prepare herself for 
the approaching interview, lest the throbbing 
of her timorous heart should stifle the words of 
welcome. While the twilight grew deeper and 
duskier, she sat with Mrs. Grosvenor in an 
inner apartment, lighted only by the softened 
gleam from an alabaster lamp, which was burn- 
ing at a distance on the centre-table of the draw- 
ing-room. Never before had Sylph Etherege 
looked so sylph-like. She had communed with 
a creature of imagination, till her own loveliness 
seemed but the creation of a delicate and dreamy 
fancy. Every vibration of her spirit was visible 
in her frame, as she listened to the rattling of 
wheels and the tramp upon the pavement, and 
deemed that even the breeze bore the sound of 
her lover's footsteps, as if he trode* upon the 
viewless air. Mrs. Grosvenor, too, while she 
watched the tremulous flow of Sylvia's feelings, 
was deeply moved ; she looked uneasily at the 
agitated girl, and was about to speak, when the 
opening of the street door arrested the words 
upon her lips. 

Footsteps ascended the staircase, with a con- 
fident and familiar tread, and some one entered 
the drawing-room. From the sofa where they 
sat, in the inner apartment, Mrs. Grosvenor and 
Sylvia could not discern the visitor. 

“ Sylph ! ” cried a voice. “ Dearest Sylph ! 

161 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


Where are you, sweet Sylph Etherege? Here 
is your Edgar Vaughan ! ” 

But instead of answering, or rising to meet 
her lover, — who had greeted her by the sweet 
and fanciful name, which, appropriate as it was 
to her character, was known only to him, — 
Sylvia grasped Mrs. Grosvenor’s arm, while her 
whole frame shook with the throbbing of her 
heart. 

cc Who is it ? ” gasped she. “ Who calls me 
Sylph ? ” 

Before Mrs. Grosvenor could reply, the 
stranger entered the room, bearing the lamp in 
his hand. Approaching the sofa, he displayed 
to Sylvia the features of Edward Hamilton, 
illuminated by that evil smile, from which his 
face derived so marked an individuality. 

“ Is not the miniature an admirable like- 
ness ? ” inquired he. 

Sylvia shuddered, but had not power to turn 
away her white face from his gaze. The minia- 
ture, which she had been holding in her hand, 
fell down upon the floor, where Hamilton, or 
Vaughan, set his foot upon it, and crushed the 
ivory counterfeit to fragments. 

“ There, my sweet Sylph,” he exclaimed. 
“It was I that created your phantom lover, and 
now I annihilate him ! Your dream is rudely 
broken. Awake, Sylph Etherege, awake to 
truth ! I am the only Edgar Vaughan ! ” 

162 


SYLPH ETHEREGE 


“We have gone too far, Edgar Vaughan,” 
said Mrs. Grosvenor, catching Sylvia in her 
arms. The revengeful freak, which Vaughan’s 
wounded vanity had suggested, had been coun- 
tenanced by this lady, in the hope of curing 
Sylvia of her romantic notions, and reconciling 
her to the truths and realities of life. “ Look 
at the poor child ! ” she continued. “ I protest 
I tremble for the consequences ! ” 

“ Indeed, madam ! ” replied Vaughan sneer- 
ingly, as he threw the light of the lamp on Syl- 
via’s closed eyes and marble features. “Well, 
my conscience is clear. I did but look into this 
delicate creature’s heart ; and with the pure fan- 
tasies that I found there I made what seemed a 
man, — and the delusive shadow has wiled her 
away to Shadow-land, and vanished there ! It 
is no new tale. Many a sweet maid has shared 
the lot of poor Sylph Etherege ! ” 

“ And now, Edgar Vaughan,” said Mrs. 
Grosvenor, as Sylvia’s heart began faintly to 
throb again, “ now try, in good earnest, to win 
back her love from the phantom which you con- 
jured up. If you succeed, she will be the bet- 
ter, her whole life long, for the lesson we have 
given her.” 

Whether the result of the lesson corresponded 
with Mrs. Grosvenor’s hopes may be gathered 
from the closing scene of our story. It had 
been made known to the fashionable world that 

163 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

Edgar Vaughan had returned from France, and, 
under the assumed name of Edward Hamilton, 
had won the affections of the lovely girl to 
whom he had been affianced in his boyhood. 
The nuptials were to take place at an early date. 
One evening, before the day of anticipated bliss 
arrived, Edgar Vaughan entered Mrs. Gros- 
venor’s drawing-room, where he found that lady 
and Sylph Etherege. 

“ Only that Sylvia makes no complaint,” re- 
marked Mrs. Grosvenor, “ I should apprehend 
that the town air is ill suited to her constitu- 
tion. She was always, indeed, a delicate crea- 
ture ; but now she is a mere gossamer. Do 
but look at her ! Did you ever imagine any- 
thing so fragile ? ” 

Vaughan was already attentively observing 
his mistress, who sat in a shadowy and moon- 
lighted recess of the room, with her dreamy 
eyes fixed steadfastly upon his own. The bough 
of a tree was waving before the window, and 
sometimes enveloped her in the gloom of its 
shadow, into which she seemed to vanish. 

“Yes,” he said to Mrs. Grosvenor. “ I can 
scarcely deem her c of the earth, earthy.’ No 
wonder that I call her Sylph ! Methinks she 
will fade into the moonlight, which falls upon 
her through the window. Or, in the open air, 
she might flit away upon the breeze, like a 
wreath of mist ! ” 


164 


SYLPH ETHEREGE 


Sylvia’s eyes grew yet brighter. She waved 
her hand to Edgar Vaughan, with a gesture of 
ethereal triumph. 

“ Farewell ! ” she said. “ I will neither fade 
into the moonlight, nor flit away upon the 
breeze. Yet you cannot keep me here ! ” 

There was something in Sylvia’s look and 
tones that startled Mrs. Grosvenor with a ter- 
rible apprehension. But, as she was rushing 
towards the girl, Vaughan held her back. 

“ Stay ! ” cried he, with a strange smile of 
mockery and anguish. “ Can our sweet Sylph 
be going to heaven, to seek the original of the 
miniature ? ” 

165 


THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS 


T HE summer moon, which shines in so 
many a tale, was beaming over a broad 
extent of uneven country. Some of 
its brightest rays were flung into a spring of 
water, where no traveller, toiling, as the writer 
has, up the hilly road beside which it gushes, 
ever failed to quench his thirst. The work of 
neat hands and considerate art was visible about 
this blessed fountain. An open cistern, hewn 
and hollowed out of solid stone, was placed 
above the waters, which filled it to the brim, but 
by some invisible outlet were conveyed away 
without dripping down its sides. Though the 
basin had not room for another drop, and the 
continual gush of water made a tremor on the 
surface, there was a secret charm that forbade 
it to overflow. I remember, that when I had 
slaked my summer thirst, and sat panting by the 
cistern, it was my fanciful theory that Nature 
could not afford to lavish so pure a liquid, as 
she does the waters of all meaner fountains. 

While the moon was hanging almost perpen- 
dicularly over this spot, two figures appeared on 
the summit of the hill, and came with noiseless 
footsteps down towards the spring. They were 
166 


THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS 


then in the first freshness of youth ; nor is there 
a wrinkle now on either of their brows, and yet 
they wore a strange, old-fashioned garb. One, a 
young man with ruddy cheeks, walked beneath 
the canopy of a broad-brimmed gray hat ; he 
seemed to have inherited his great-grandsire’s 
square-skirted coat, and a waistcoat that ex- 
tended its immense flaps to his knees ; his brown 
locks, also, hung down behind, in a mode un- 
known to our times. By his side was a sweet 
young damsel, her fair features sheltered by a 
prim little bonnet, within which appeared the 
vestal muslin of a cap ; her close, long-waisted 
gown, and indeed her whole attire, might have 
been worn by some rustic beauty who had faded 
half a century before. But that there was some- 
thing too warm and lifelike in them, I would 
here have compared this couple to the ghosts 
of two young lovers who had died long since 
in the glow of passion, and now were straying 
out of their graves, to renew the old vows, and 
shadow forth the unforgotten kiss of their 
earthly lips, beside the moonlit spring. 

<c Thee and I will rest here a moment, 
Miriam,” said the young man, as they drew 
near the stone cistern, “ for there is no fear that 
the elders know what we have done ; and this 
may be the last time we shall ever taste this 
water.” 

Thus speaking, with a little sadness in his 
167 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


face, which was also visible in that of his com- 
panion, he made her sit down on a stone, and 
was about to place himself very close to her 
side ; she, however, repelled him, though not 
unkindly. 

“ Nay, Josiah,” said she, giving him a timid 
push with her maiden hand, “ thee must sit 
farther off, on that other stone, with the spring 
between us. What would the sisters say, if 
thee were to sit so close to me ? ” 

“ But we are of the world’s people now, 
Miriam,” answered Josiah. 

The girl persisted in her prudery, nor did 
the youth, in fact, seem altogether free from a 
similar sort of shyness ; so they sat apart from 
each other, gazing up the hill, where the moon- 
light discovered the tops of a group of buildings. 
While their attention was thus occupied, a party 
of travellers, who had come wearily up the long 
ascent, made a halt to refresh themselves at the 
spring. There were three men, a woman, and 
a little girl and boy. Their attire was mean, 
covered with the dust of the summer’s day, and 
damp with the night-dew ; they all looked woe- 
begone, as if the cares and sorrows of the world 
had made their steps heavier as they climbed 
the hill ; even the two little children appeared 
older in evil days than the young man and 
maiden who had first approached the spring. 

“ Good-evening to you, young folks,” was 
168 


THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS 

the salutation of the travellers ; and <c Good 
evening, friends,” replied the youth and damsel. 

“ Is that white building the Shaker meeting- 
house ? ” asked one of the strangers. “ And 
are those the red roofs of the Shaker village ? ” 

“ Friend, it is the Shaker village,” answered 
Josiah, after some hesitation. 

The travellers, who, from the first, had 
looked suspiciously at the garb of these young 
people, now taxed them with an intention which 
all the circumstances, indeed, rendered too ob- 
vious to be mistaken. 

“ It is true, friends,” replied the young man, 
summoning up his courage. “ Miriam and I 
have a gift to love each other, and we are going 
among the world’s people, to live after their 
fashion. And ye know that we do not trans- 
gress the law of the land ; and neither ye, nor 
the elders themselves, have a right to hinder 
us.” 

<c Yet you think it expedient to depart with- 
out leave-taking,” remarked one of the trav- 
ellers. 

“ Yea, ye-a,” said Josiah reluctantly, “ be- 
cause Father Job is a very awful man to speak 
with ; and being aged himself, he has but little 
charity for what he calls the iniquities of the 
flesh.” 

“ Well,” said the stranger, <c we will neither 
use force to bring you back to the village, nor 
169 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


will we betray you to the elders. But sit you 
here awhile, and when you have heard what we 
shall tell you of the world which we have left, 
and into which you are going, perhaps you will 
turn back with us of your own accord. What 
say you ? ” added he, turning to his compan- 
ions. “ We have travelled thus far without be- 
coming known to each other. Shall we tell our 
stories, here by this pleasant spring, for our own 
pastime, and the benefit of these misguided 
young lovers ? ” 

In accordance with this proposal, the whole 
party stationed themselves round the stone 
cistern ; the two children, being very weary, 
fell asleep upon the damp earth, and the pretty 
Shaker girl, whose feelings were those of a nun 
or a Turkish lady, crept as close as possible to 
the female traveller, and as far as she well could 
from the unknown men. The same person 
who had hitherto been the chief spokesman 
now stood up, waving his hat in his hand, and 
suffered the moonlight to fall full upon his 
front. 

cc In me,” said he, with a certain majesty of 
utterance, — “ in me, you behold a poet.” 

Though a lithographic print of this gentle- 
man is extant, it may be well to notice that he 
was now nearly forty, a thin and stooping fig- 
ure, in a black coat, out at elbows ; notwith- 
standing the ill condition of his attire, there were 
170 


THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS 

about him several tokens of a peculiar sort of 
foppery, unworthy of a mature man, particu- 
larly in the arrangement of his hair, which was 
so disposed as to give all possible loftiness and 
breadth to his forehead. However, he had an 
intelligent eye, and, on the whole, a marked 
countenance. 

“ A poet ! ” repeated the young Shaker, a 
little puzzled how to understand such a desig- 
nation, seldom heard in the utilitarian com- 
munity where he had spent his life. “ O, ay, 
Miriam, he means a varse-maker, thee must 
know.” 

This remark jarred upon the susceptible 
nerves of the poet ; nor could he help wonder- 
ing what strange fatality had put into this young 
man’s mouth an epithet which ill-natured peo- 
ple had affirmed to be more proper to his merit 
than the one assumed by himself. 

“True, I am a verse-maker,” he resumed, 
“ but my verse is no more than the material 
body into which I breathe the celestial soul of 
thought. Alas ! how many a pang has it cost 
me, this same insensibility to the ethereal es- 
sence of poetry, with which you have here tor- 
tured me again, at the moment when I am to 
relinquish my profession forever ! O Fate ! 
why hast thou warred with Nature, turning all 
her higher and more perfect gifts to the ruin 
of me, their possessor ? What is the voice of 
I 7 I 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


song, when the world lacks the ear of taste ? 
How can I rejoice in my strength and delicacy 
of feeling, when they have but made great sor- 
rows out of little ones ? Have I dreaded scorn 
like death, and yearned for fame as others pant 
for vital air, only to find myself in a middle 
state between obscurity and infamy? But I 
have my revenge ! I could have given exist- 
ence to a thousand bright creations. I crush 
them into my heart, and there let them putrefy ! 
I shake off the dust of my feet against my 
countrymen ! But posterity, tracing my foot- 
steps up this weary hill, will cry shame upon 
the unworthy age that drove one of the fathers 
of American song to end his days in a Shaker 
village ! ” 

During this harangue, the speaker gesticu- 
lated with great energy, and, as poetry is the 
natural language of passion, there appeared rea- 
son to apprehend his final explosion into an ode 
extempore. The reader must understand that, 
for all these bitter words, he was a kind, gentle, 
harmless, poor fellow enough, whom Nature, 
tossing her ingredients together without looking 
at her recipe, had sent into the world with too 
much of one sort of brain, and hardly any of 
another. 

“ Friend/' said the young Shaker in some 
perplexity, “ thee seemest to have met with 
great troubles ; and, doubtless, I should pity 
172 


THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS 

them, if — if I could but understand what they 
were.” 

“ Happy in your ignorance ! ” replied the 
poet, with an air of sublime superiority. “To 
your coarser mind, perhaps, I may seem to 
speak of more important griefs when I add, 
what I had well-nigh forgotten, that I am out at 
elbows, and almost starved to death. At any 
rate, you have the advice and example of one 
individual to warn you back ; for I am come 
hither, a disappointed man, flinging aside the 
fragments of my hopes, and seeking shelter in 
the calm retreat which you are so anxious to 
leave.” 

“ I thank thee, friend,” rejoined the youth, 
“ but I do not mean to be a poet, nor. Heaven 
be praised ! do I think Miriam ever made a 
varse in her life. So we need not fear thy dis- 
appointments. But, Miriam,” he added, with 
real concern, “ thee knowest that the elders 
admit nobody that has not a gift to be useful. 
Now, what under the sun can they do with this 
poor varse-maker ? ” 

“ Nay, Josiah, do not thee discourage the 
poor man,” said the girl, in all simplicity and 
kindness. “ Our hymns are very rough, and 
perhaps they may trust him to smooth them.” 

Without noticing this hint of professional 
employment, the poet turned away, and gave 
himself up to a sort of vague reverie, which he 
*73 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


called thought. Sometimes he watched the 
moon, pouring a silvery liquid on the clouds, 
through which it slowly melted till they became 
all bright ; then he saw the same sweet radiance 
dancing on the leafy trees, which rustled as if 
to shake it off, or sleeping on the high tops of 
hills, or hovering down in distant valleys, like 
the material of unshaped dreams ; lastly, he 
looked into the spring, and there the light was 
mingling with the water. In its crystal bosom, 
too, beholding all heaven reflected there, he 
found an emblem of a pure and tranquil breast. 
He listened to that most ethereal of all sounds, 
the song of crickets, coming in full choir upon 
the wind, and fancied that, if moonlight could 
be heard, it would sound just like that. Final- 
ly, he took a draught at the Shaker spring, 
and, as if it were the true Castalia, was forth- 
with moved to compose a lyric, a Farewell to 
his Harp, which he swore should be its closing 
strain, the last verse that an ungrateful world 
should have from him. This effusion, with two 
or three other little pieces, subsequently writ- 
ten, he took the first opportunity to send, by 
one of the Shaker brethren, to Concord, where 
they were published in the New Hampshire 
Patriot. 

Meantime, another of the Canterbury pil- 
grims, one so different from the poet that the 
delicate fancy of the latter could hardly have 
174 


THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS 


conceived of him, began to relate his sad expe- 
rience. He was a small man, of quick and un- 
quiet gestures, about fifty years old, with a nar- 
row forehead, all wrinkled and drawn together. 
He held in his hand a pencil, and a card of 
some commission merchant in foreign parts, on 
the back of which, for there was light enough to 
read or write by, he seemed ready to figure out 
a calculation. 

“ Young man,” said he abruptly, “ what 
quantity of land do the Shakers own here, in 
Canterbury ? ” 

“ That is more than I can tell thee, friend,” 
answered Josiah, “ but it is a very rich estab- 
lishment, and for a long way by the roadside 
thee may guess the land to be ours, by the 
neatness of the fences.” 

“ And what may be the value of the whole,” 
continued the stranger, cc with all the buildings 
and improvements, pretty nearly, in round 
numbers ? ” 

“ O, a monstrous sum, — more than I can 
reckon,” replied the young Shaker. 

cc Well, sir,” said the pilgrim, “ there was a 
day, and not very long ago, neither, when I stood 
at my counting-room window, and watched the 
signal flags of three of my own ships entering 
the harbor, from the East Indies, from Liver- 
pool, and from up the Straits, and I would not 
have given the invoice of the least of them for 
175 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


the title-deeds of this whole Shaker settlement. 
You stare. Perhaps, now, you won’t believe 
that I could have put more value on a little 
piece of paper, no bigger than the palm of your 
hand, than all these solid acres of grain, grass, 
and pasture land would sell for ? ” 

“ I won’t dispute it, friend,” answered Jo- 
siah, c< but I know I had rather have fifty acres 
of this good land than a whole sheet of thy 
paper.” 

“ You may say so now,” said the ruined mer- 
chant bitterly, “ for my name would not be 
worth the paper I should write it on. Of course, 
you must have heard of my failure ? ” 

And the stranger mentioned his name, which, 
however mighty it might have been in the com- 
mercial world, the young Shaker had never 
heard of among the Canterbury hills. 

c< Not heard of my failure ! ” exclaimed the 
merchant, considerably piqued. “ Why, it was 
spoken of on ’Change in London, and from 
Boston to New Orleans men trembled in their 
shoes. At all events, I did fail, and you see me 
here on my road to the Shaker village, where, 
doubtless (for the Shakers are a shrewd sect), 
they will have a due respect for my experience, 
and give me the management of the trading 
part of the concern, in which case I think I can 
pledge myself to double their capital in four or 
five years. Turn back with me, young man ; 

176 


THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS 


for though you will never meet with my good 
luck, you can hardly escape my bad.” 

“ I will not turn back for this,” replied Jo- 
siah calmly, “ any more than for the advice of 
the varse-maker, between whom and thee, friend, 
I see a sort ' of likeness, though I can't justly 
say where it lies. But Miriam and I can earn 
our daily bread among the world’s people as 
well as in the Shaker village. And do we want 
anything more, Miriam ? ” 

“ Nothing more, Josiah,” said the girl quietly. 

“Yea, Miriam, and daily bread for some 
other little mouths, if God send them,” observed 
the simple Shaker lad. 

Miriam did not reply, but looked down into 
the spring, where she encountered the image of 
her own pretty face, blushing within the prim 
little bonnet. The third pilgrim now took up 
the conversation. He was a sunburnt country- 
man, of tall frame and bony strength, on whose 
rude and manly face there appeared a darker, 
more sullen and obstinate despondency, than 
on those of either the poet or the merchant. 

“Well, now, youngster,” he began, “these 
folks have had their say, so I ’ll take my turn. 
My story will cut but a poor figure by the side 
of theirs; for I never supposed that I could 
have a right to meat and drink, and great praise 
besides, only for tagging rhymes together, as it 
seems this man does ; nor ever tried to get the 
1 77 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


substance of hundreds into my own hands, like 
the trader there. When I was about of your 
years, I married me a wife, — just such a neat 
and pretty young woman as Miriam, if that's 
her name, — and all I asked of Providence was 
an ordinary blessing on the sweat of my brow, 
so that we might be decent and comfortable, and 
have daily bread for ourselves, and for some 
other little mouths that we soon had to feed. 
We had no very great prospects before us ; but 
I never wanted to be idle ; and I thought it a 
matter of course that the Lord would help me, 
because I was willing to help myself." 

“ And did n't He help thee, friend ? " de- 
manded Josiah with some eagerness. 

“ No," said the yeoman sullenly ; “ for then 
you would not have seen me here. I have 
labored hard for years ; and my means have been 
growing narrower, and my living poorer, and 
my heart colder and heavier, all the time ; till 
at last I could bear it no longer. I set myself 
down to calculate whether I had best go on the 
Oregon expedition, or come here to the Shaker 
village ; but I had not hope enough left in me 
to begin the world over again ; and, to make 
my story short, here I am. And now, young- 
ster, take my advice, and turn back ; or else, 
some few years hence, you 'll have to climb this 
hill, with as heavy a heart as mine." 

This simple story had a strong effect on the 
178 


THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS 


young fugitives. The misfortunes of the poet 
and merchant had won little sympathy from 
their plain good sense and unworldly feelings, 
qualities which made them such unprejudiced 
and inflexible judges, that few men would have 
chosen to take the opinion of this youth and 
maiden as to the wisdom or folly of their 
pursuits. But here was one whose simple 
wishes had resembled their own, and who, after 
efforts which almost gave him a right to claim 
success from fate, had failed in accomplishing 
them. 

“ But thy wife, friend ? ” exclaimed the young 
man. “ What became of the pretty girl, like 
Miriam ? O, I am afraid she is dead ! ” 

“ Yea, poor man, she must be dead, — she 
and the children, too,” sobbed Miriam. 

The female pilgrim had been leaning over the 
spring, wherein latterly a tear or two might have 
been seen to fall, and form its little circle on the 
surface of the water. She now looked up, dis- 
closing features still comely, but which had ac- 
quired an expression of fretfulness, in the same 
long course of evil fortune that had thrown a 
sullen gloom over the temper of the unprosper- 
ous yeoman. 

“ I am his wife,” said she, a shade of irritabil- 
ity just perceptible in the sadness of her tone. 
“ These poor little things, asleep on the ground, 
are two of our children. We had two more, 
179 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


but God has provided better for them than we 
could, by taking them to Himself.” 

“ And what would thee advise Josiah and 
me to do ? ” asked Miriam, this being the first 
question which she had put to either of the 
strangers. 

cc ’T is a thing almost against nature for a 
woman to try to part true lovers,” answered the 
yeoman’s wife after a pause ; cc but I ’ll speak as 
truly to you as if these were my dying words. 
Though my husband told you some of our trou- 
bles, he did n’t mention the greatest, and that 
which makes all the rest so hard to bear. If you 
and your sweetheart marry, you ’ll be kind and 
pleasant to each other for a year or two, and 
while that ’s the case, you never will repent ; but, 
by and by, he ’ll grow gloomy, rough, and hard 
to please, and you ’ll be peevish, and full of lit- 
tle angry fits, and apt to be complaining by the 
fireside, when he comes to rest himself from his 
troubles out of doors ; so your love will wear 
away by little and little, and leave you miserable 
at last. It has been so with us; and yet my 
husband and I were true lovers once, if ever 
two young folks were.” 

As she ceased, the yeoman and his wife ex- 
changed a glance, in which there was more and 
warmer affection than they had supposed to have 
escaped the frost of a wintry fate, in either of 
their breasts. At that moment, when they stood 
180 


THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS 


on the utmost verge of married life, one word 
fitly spoken, or perhaps one peculiar look, had 
they had mutual confidence enough to recipro- 
cate it, might have renewed all their old feelings, 
and sent them back, resolved to sustain each 
other amid the struggles of the world. But the 
crisis passed and never came again. Just then, 
also, the children, roused by their mother’s 
voice, looked up, and added their wailing ac- 
cents to the testimony borne by all the Canter- 
bury pilgrims against the world from which they 
fled. 

“ We are tired and hungry!” cried they. 
“Is it far to the Shaker village ? ” 

The Shaker youth and maiden looked mourn- 
fully into each other’s eyes. They had but 
stepped across the threshold of their homes, 
when lo ! the dark array of cares and sorrows 
that rose up to warn them back. The varied 
narratives of the strangers had arranged them- 
selves into a parable ; they seemed not merely 
instances of woeful fate that had befallen others, 
but shadowy omens of disappointed hope and 
unavailing toil, domestic grief and estranged 
affection, that would cloud the onward path 
of these poor fugitives. But after one instant’s 
hesitation, they opened their arms, and sealed 
their resolve with as pure and fond an embrace 
as ever youthful love had hallowed. 

“We will not go back,” said they. “ The 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


world never can be dark to us, for we will al- 
ways love one another.” 

Then the Canterbury pilgrims went up the 
hill, while the poet chanted a drear and desper- 
ate stanza of the Farewell to his Harp, fitting 
music for that melancholy band. They sought 
a home where all former ties of nature or soci- 
ety would be sundered, and all old distinctions 
levelled, and a cold and passionless security be 
substituted for mortal hope and fear, as in that 
other refuge of the world’s weary outcasts, the 
grave. The lovers drank at the Shaker spring, 
and then, with chastened hopes, but more con- 
fiding affections, went on to mingle in an untried 


OLD NEWS 


I 

H ERE is a volume of what were once 
newspapers, each on a small half-sheet, 
yellow and time-stained, of a coarse 
fabric, and imprinted with a rude old type. 
Their aspect conveys a singular impression of 
antiquity, in a species of literature which we are 
accustomed to consider as connected only with 
the present moment. Ephemeral as they were 
intended and supposed to be, they have long 
outlived the printer and his whole subscription 
list, and have proved more durable, as to their 
physical existence, than most of the timber, 
bricks, and stone of the town where they were 
issued. These are but the least of their tri- 
umphs. The government, the interests, the 
opinions, in short, all the moral circumstances 
that were contemporary with their publication, 
have passed away, and left no better record of 
what they were than may be found in these 
frail leaves. Happy are the editors of news- 
papers ! Their productions excel all others in 
immediate popularity, and are certain to ac- 
quire another sort of value with the lapse of 
^3 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


time. They scatter their leaves to the wind, 
as the sibyl did, and posterity collects them, 
to be treasured up among the best materials of 
its wisdom. With hasty pens they write for 
immortality. 

It is pleasant to take one of these little dingy 
half-sheets between the thumb and finger, and 
picture forth the personage who, above ninety 
years ago, held it, wet from the press, and 
steaming, before the fire. Many of the num- 
bers bear the name of an old colonial dignitary. 
There he sits, a major, a member of the coun- 
cil, and a weighty merchant, in his high-backed 
armchair, wearing a solemn wig and grave at- 
tire, such as befits his imposing gravity of mien, 
and displaying but little finery, except a huge 
pair of silver shoe-buckles, curiously carved. 
Observe the awful reverence of his visage, as 
he reads his Majesty’s most gracious speech ; 
and the deliberate wisdom with which he pon- 
ders over some paragraph of provincial poli- 
tics, and the keener intelligence with which 
he glances at the ship news and commercial ad- 
vertisements. Observe, and smile ! He may 
have been a wise man in his day ; but, to us, 
the wisdom of the politician appears like folly, 
because we can compare its prognostics with 
actual results ; and the old merchant seems to 
have busied himself about vanities, because we 
know that the expected ships have been lost 
184 


OLD NEWS 


at sea, or mouldered at the wharves ; that his 
imported broadcloths were long ago worn to 
tatters, and his cargoes of wine quaffed to the 
lees ; and that the most precious leaves of his 
ledger have become waste paper. Yet, his avo- 
cations were not so vain as our philosophic 
moralizing. In this world we are the things 
of a moment, and are made to pursue momen- 
tary things, with here and there a thought that 
stretches mistily towards eternity, and perhaps 
may endure as long. All philosophy that 
would abstract mankind from the present is no 
more than words. 

The first pages of the most of these old 
papers are as soporific as a bed of poppies. 
Here we have an erudite clergyman, or per- 
haps a Cambridge professor, occupying several 
successive weeks with a criticism on Tate and 
Brady, as compared with the New England 
version of the Psalms. Of course, the prefer- 
ence is given to the native article. Here are 
doctors disagreeing about the treatment of a 
putrid fever then prevalent, and blackguarding 
each other with a characteristic virulence that 
renders the controversy not altogether unread- 
able. Here are President Wigglesworth and 
the Rev. Dr. Colman, endeavoring to raise a 
fund for the support of missionaries among the 
Indians of Massachusetts Bay. Easy would be 
the duties of such a mission now! Here — 
185 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


for there is nothing new under the sun — are 
frequent complaints of the disordered state of 
the currency, and the project of a bank with 
a capital of five hundred thousand pounds, se- 
cured on lands. Here are literary essays, from 
the Gentleman’s Magazine ; and squibs against 
the Pretender, from the London newspapers. 
And here, occasionally, are specimens of New 
England humor, laboriously light and lament- 
ably mirthful, as if some very sober person, in 
his zeal to be merry, were dancing a jig to the 
tune of a funeral psalm. All this is wearisome, 
and we must turn the leaf. 

There is a good deal of amusement, and 
some profit, in the perusal of those little items 
which characterize the manners and circum- 
stances of the country. New England was 
then in a state incomparably more picturesque 
than at present, or than it has been within the 
memory of man ; there being, as yet, only a 
narrow strip of civilization along the edge of a 
vast forest, peopled with enough of its original 
race to contrast the savage life with the old 
customs of another world. The white popu- 
lation, also, was diversified by the influx of all 
sorts of expatriated vagabonds, and by the con- 
tinual importation of bond-servants from Ire- 
land and elsewhere, so that there was a wild and 
unsettled multitude, forming a strong minority 
to the sober descendants of the Puritans. Then, 
186 


OLD NEWS 


there were the slaves, contributing their dark 
shade to the picture of society. The conse- 
quence of all this was a great variety and singu- 
larity of action and incident, many instances 
of which might be selected from these columns, 
where they are told with a simplicity and 
quaintness of style that bring the striking points 
into very strong relief. It is natural to sup- 
pose, too, that these circumstances affected the 
body of the people, and made their course 
of life generally less regular than that of their 
descendants. There is no evidence that the 
moral standard was higher then than now ; or, 
indeed, that morality was so well defined as it 
has since become. There seem to have been 
quite as many frauds and robberies, in propor- 
tion to the number of honest deeds ; there were 
murders, in hot blood and in malice ; and bloody 
quarrels over liquor. Some of our fathers also 
appear to have been yoked to unfaithful wives, 
if we may trust the frequent notices of elope- 
ments from bed and board. The pillory, the 
whipping-post, the prison, and the gallows, each 
had their use in those old times ; and, in short, 
as often as our imagination lives in the past, we 
find it a ruder and rougher age than our own, 
with hardly any perceptible advantages, and 
much that gave life a gloomier tinge. 

In vain we endeavor to throw a sunny and 
joyous air over our picture of this period ; 

187 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


nothing passes before our fancy but a crowd of 
sad-visaged people, moving duskily through a 
dull gray atmosphere. It is certain that winter 
rushed upon them with fiercer storms than now, 
blocking up the narrow forest-paths, and over- 
whelming the roads along the sea-coast with 
mountain snowdrifts ; so that weeks elapsed be- 
fore the newspaper could announce how many 
travellers had perished, or what wrecks had 
strewn the shore. The cold was more piercing 
then, and lingered further into the spring, mak- 
ing the chimney-corner a comfortable seat till 
long past May Day. By the number of such 
accidents on record, we might suppose that the 
thunder-stone, as they termed it, fell oftener 
and deadlier on steeples, dwellings, and unshel- 
tered wretches . 1 In fine, our fathers bore the 
brunt of more raging and pitiless elements than 
we. There were forebodings, also, of a more 
fearful tempest than those of the elements. At 
two or three dates, we have stories of drums, 
trumpets, and all sorts of martial music, passing 
athwart the midnight sky, accompanied with the 
roar of cannon and rattle of musketry, prophetic 
echoes of the sounds that were soon to shake 
the land . 2 Besides these airy prognostics, there 

1 [On first printing this paper, Hawthorne added a footnote at this 
point : “It might well have been the case, as there were no lightning- 
rods.”] 

2 [Another footnote occurred here: “The printer intimates a doubt 
whether any sound auguries could be drawn from these unaccountable 

188 


OLD NEWS 


were rumors of French fleets on the coast, and 
of the march of French and Indians through 
the wilderness, along the borders of the settle- 
ments. The country was saddened, moreover, 
with grievous sicknesses. The small-pox raged 
in many of the towns, and seems, though so 
familiar a scourge, to have been regarded with 
as much affright as that which drove the throng 
from Wall Street and Broadway at the approach 
of a new pestilence. There were autumnal 
fevers too, and a contagious and destructive 
throat distemper, — diseases unwritten in med- 
ical books. The dark superstition of former 
days had not yet been so far dispelled as not to 
heighten the gloom of the present time. There 
is an advertisement, indeed, by a committee of 
the Legislature, calling for information as to the 
circumstances of sufferers in the “ late calamity 
of 1692,” with a view to reparation for their 
losses and misfortunes. But the tenderness with 
which, after above forty years, it was thought 
expedient to allude to the witchcraft delusion, 
indicates a good deal of lingering error, as well 
as the advance of more enlightened opinions. 
The rigid hand of Puritanism might yet be felt 
upon the reins of government, while some of 
the ordinances intimate a disorderly spirit on 


noises. We have no patience with such a would-be Sadducee, who, so 
long as general opinion countenances the belief, could struggle to be a scep- 
tic in regard to this most thrilling and sublime superstition.”] 

189 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


the part of the people. The Suffolk justices, 
after a preamble that great disturbances have 
been committed by persons entering town and 
leaving it in coaches, chaises, calashes, and other 
wheel carriages, on the evening before the Sab- 
bath, give notice that a watch will hereafter be 
set at the “ fortification-gate/* to prevent these 
outrages. It is amusing to see Boston assuming 
the aspect of a walled city, guarded, probably, 
by a detachment of church members, with a dea- 
con at their head. Governor Belcher makes pro- 
clamation against certain “ loose and dissolute 
people ” who have been wont to stop passengers 
in the streets on the Fifth of November, “other- 
wise called Pope’s Day,” and levy contributions 
for the building of bonfires. I n this instance, the 
populace are more puritanic than the magistrate. 

The elaborate solemnities of funerals were in 
accordance with the sombre character of the 
times. In cases of ordinary death, the printer 
seldom fails to notice that the corpse was cc very 
decently interred.” But when some mightier 
mortal has yielded to his fate, the decease of the 
“ worshipful ” such-a-one is announced, with all 
his titles of deacon, justice, councillor, and colo- 
nel ; then follows an heraldic sketch of his hon- 
orable ancestors, and lastly an account of the 
black pomp of his funeral, and the liberal ex- 
penditure of scarfs, gloves, and mourning rings. 
The burial train glides slowly before us, as we 
190 


OLD NEWS 


have seen it represented in the woodcuts of that 
day, the coffin, and the bearers, and the lament- 
able friends, trailing their long black garments, 
while grim Death, a most misshapen skeleton, 
with all kinds of doleful emblems, stalks hide- 
ously in front. There was a coach-maker at this 
period, one John Lucas, who seems to have 
gained the chief of his living by letting out a 
sable coach to funerals. 

It would not be fair, however, to leave quite 
so dismal an impression on the reader’s mind ; 
nor should it be forgotten that happiness may 
walk soberly in dark attire, as well as dance 
lightsomely in a gala dress. And this reminds 
us that there is an incidental notice of the “ dan- 
cing-school near the Orange-Tree,” whence we 
may infer that the saltatory art was occasionally 
practised, though perhaps chastened into a char- 
acteristic gravity of movement . 1 This pastime 
was probably confined to the aristocratic circle, 
of which the royal governor was the centre. 
But we are scandalized at the attempt of Jona- 
than Furness to introduce a more reprehensible 
amusement: he challenges the whole country 
to match his black gelding in a race for a 
hundred pounds, to be decided on Menotomy 
Common or Chelsea Beach. Nothing as to the 

1 [When first printed, this footnote was given here : “ There was a 
dancing-school in Boston for a short period, as long ago, we think, as in 
1685.”] 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

manners of the times can be inferred from this 
freak of an individual. There were no daily 
and continual opportunities of being merry ; 
but sometimes the people rejoiced, in their own 
peculiar fashion, oftener with a calm, religious 
smile than with a broad laugh, as when they 
feasted, like one great family, at Thanksgiving 
time, or indulged a livelier mirth throughout 
the pleasant days of Election Week. This lat- 
ter was the true holiday season of New Eng- 
land. Military musters were too seriously im- 
portant in that warlike time to be classed among 
amusements ; but they stirred up and enlivened 
the public mind, and were occasions of solemn 
festival to the governor and great men of the 
province, at the expense of the field-officers. 
The Revolution blotted a feast day out of our 
calendar ; for the anniversary of the king’s birth 
appears to have been celebrated with most im- 
posing pomp, by salutes from Castle William, 
a military parade, a grand dinner at the town- 
house, and a brilliant illumination in the even- 
ing. There was nothing forced nor feigned in 
these testimonials of loyalty to George the Sec- 
ond. So long as they dreaded the reestablish- 
ment of a popish dynasty, the people were fer- 
vent for the house of Hanover ; and, besides, 
the immediate magistracy of the country was a 
barrier between the monarch and the occasional 
discontents of the colonies ; the waves of fac- 
192 


OLD NEWS 


tion sometimes reached the governor’s chair, but 
never swelled against the throne. Thus, until 
oppression was felt to proceed from the king’s 
own hand. New England rejoiced with her 
whole heart on his Majesty’s birthday . 1 

But the slaves, we suspect, were the merriest 
part of the population, since it was their gift 
to be merry in the worst of circumstances ; 
and they endured comparatively few hardships, 
under the domestic sway of our fathers. There 
seems to have been a great trade in these hu- 
man commodities. No advertisements are more 
frequent than those of “ a negro fellow, fit for 
almost any household work ; ” “ a negro wo- 
man, honest, healthy, and capable ; ” “ a negro 
wench of many desirable qualities ; ” “ a negro 
man, very fit for a taylor.” We know not in 
what this natural fitness for a tailor consisted, 
unless it were some peculiarity of conformation 
that enabled him to sit cross-legged. When the 
slaves of a family were inconveniently prolific, 
— it being not quite orthodox to drown the 
superfluous offspring, like a litter of kittens, — 
notice was promulgated of “ a negro child to be 
given away.” Sometimes the slaves assumed 

1 [“In some old pamphlet, we recollect a proposal to erect an eques- 
trian statue of the ‘ glorious King William ’ in front of the town-house, 
looking down King-street. It would have been pleasant to have had an 
historic monument, of any kind, in that street of historic recollections. Even 
the whig monarch, however, would hardly have kept his saddle through 
the Revolution though himself a revolutionary king.” — Footnote in the 
first issue. ] 


193 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


the property of their own persons, and made 
their escape ; among many such instances, the 
governor raises a hue and cry after his negro 
Juba. But, without venturing a word in exten- 
uation of the general system, we confess our 
opinion that Caesar, Pompey, Scipio, and all 
such great Roman namesakes, would have been 
better advised had they stayed at home, fodder- 
ing the cattle, cleaning dishes, — in fine, per- 
forming their moderate share of the labors of 
life, without being harassed by its cares. The 
sable inmates of the mansion were not excluded 
from the domestic affections : in families of mid- 
dling rank, they had their places at the board ; 
and when the circle closed round the evening 
hearth, its blaze glowed on their dark, shining 
faces, intermixed familiarly with their master's 
children. It must have contributed to reconcile 
them to their lot, that they saw white men and 
women imported from Europe as they had been 
from Africa, and sold, though only for a term 
of years, yet as actual slaves, to the highest 
bidder. Slave labor being but a small part of 
the industry of the country, it did not change 
the character of the people ; the latter, on the 
contrary, modified and softened the institution, 
making it a patriarchal, and almost a beautiful, 
peculiarity of the times . 1 

1 [** Nevertheless, some time after this period, there is an advertise- 
ment of a runaway slave from Connecticut, who carried with him an iron 

194 


OLD NEWS 


Ah ! We had forgotten the good old mer- 
chant, over whose shoulder we were peeping, 
while he read the newspaper. Let us now sup- 
pose him putting on his three-cornered gold- 
laced hat, grasping his cane, with a head inlaid 
of ebony and mother-of-pearl, and setting forth 
through the crooked streets of Boston, on vari- 
ous errands, suggested by the advertisements 
of the day. Thus he communes with himself : 
I must be mindful, says he, to call at Captain 
Scut's in Creek Lane, and examine his rich vel- 
vet, whether it be fit for my apparel on Elec- 
tion Day, — that I may wear a stately aspect in 
presence of the governor and my brethren of 
the council. I will look in, also, at the shop 
of Michael Cario, the jeweller : he has silver 
buckles of a new fashion ; and mine have lasted 
me some half-score years. My fair daughter 
Miriam shall have an apron of gold brocade, 
and a velvet mask, — though it would be a 
pity the wench should hide her comely visage ; 
and also a French cap, from Robert Jenkins’s, 
on the north side of the town-house. He hath 
beads, too, and earrings, and necklaces, of all 
sorts ; these are but vanities, nevertheless, they 
would please the silly maiden well. My dame 
desireth another female in the kitchen ; where- 


collar riveted round his neck, with a chain attached. This must have 
been rather galling. Undoubtedly, there must have been a previous at- 
tempt at escape.” — Footnote in the first issue. ] 

195 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

fore, I must inspect the lot of Irish lasses, for 
sale by Samuel Waldo, aboard the schooner 
Endeavor; as also the likely negro wench at 
Captain Bullfinch's. It were not amiss that I 
took my daughter Miriam to see the royal wax- 
work, near the town dock, that she may learn 
to honor our most gracious King and Queen, 
and their royal progeny, even in their waxen 
images ; not that I would approve of image- 
worship. The camel, too, that strange beast 
from Africa, with two great humps, to be seen 
near the Common ; methinks I would fain go 
thither, and see how the old patriarchs were 
wont to ride. I will tarry awhile in Queen 
Street, at the bookstore of my good friends 
Kneeland & Green, and purchase Dr. Colman’s 
new sermon, and the volume of discourses by 
Mr. Henry Flynt; and look over the contro- 
versy on baptism, between the Rev. Peter 
Clarke and an unknown adversary ; and see 
whether this George Whitefield be as great in 
print as he is famed to be in the pulpit. By 
that time, the auction will have commenced at 
the Royal Exchange, in King Street. More- 
over I must look to the disposal of my last 
cargo of West India rum and muscovado sugar ; 
and also the lot of choice Cheshire cheese, lest 
it grow mouldy. It were well that I ordered a 
cask of good English beer, at the lower end of 
Milk Street. Then am I to speak with certain 
196 


0 









While he read the newspaper 



























































































\ 






































































































































































































OLD NEWS 


dealers about the lot of stout old Vidonia, rich 
Canary, and Oporto wines, which I have now 
lying in the cellar of the Old South meeting- 
house. But, a pipe or two of the rich Canary 
shall be reserved, that it may grow mellow in 
mine own wine cellar, and gladden my heart 
when it begins to droop with old age. 

Provident old gentleman ! But, was he mind- 
ful of his sepulchre ? Did he bethink him to 
call at the workshop of Timothy Sheaffe, in 
Cold Lane, and select such a gravestone as 
would best please him ? There wrought the 
man whose handiwork, or that of his fellow 
craftsmen, was ultimately in demand by all the 
busy multitude who have left a record of their 
earthly toil in these old time-stained papers. 
And now, as we turn over the volume, we seem 
to be wandering among the mossy stones of a 
burial ground. 

II. THE OLD FRENCH WAR 

At a period about twenty years subsequent 
to that of our former sketch, we again attempt 
a delineation of some of the characteristics of 
life and manners in New England. Our text- 
book, as before, is a file of antique newspapers. 
The volume which serves us for a writing-desk 
is a folio of larger dimensions than the one be- 
fore described ; and the papers are generally 
printed on a whole sheet, sometimes with a 
197 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


supplemental leaf of news and advertisements. 
They have a venerable appearance, being over- 
spread with a duskiness of more than seventy 
years, and discolored, here and there, with the 
deeper stains of some liquid, as if the contents 
of a wine-glass had long since been splashed 
upon the page. Still, the old book conveys an 
impression that, when the separate numbers 
were flying about town, in the first day or two 
of their respective existences, they might have 
been fit reading for very stylish people. Such 
newspapers could have been issued nowhere but 
in a metropolis, the centre, not only of public 
and private affairs, but of fashion and gayety. 
Without any discredit to the colonial press, 
these might have been, and probably were, 
spread out on the tables of the British Coffee- 
house, in King Street, for the perusal of the 
throng of officers who then drank their wine at 
that celebrated establishment. To interest these 
military gentlemen, there were bulletins of the 
war between Prussia and Austria ; between Eng- 
land and France, on the old battle-plains of 
Flanders ; and between the same antagonists, in 
the newer fields of the East Indies, — and in 
our own trackless woods, where white men never 
trod until they came to fight there. Or, the trav- 
elled American, the petit-maitre of the colonies, 
— the ape of London foppery, as the newspaper 
was the semblance of the London journals, — 


OLD NEWS 


he with his gray powdered periwig, his embroid- 
ered coat, lace ruffles, and glossy silk stockings, 
golden-clocked, his buckles of glittering paste, 
at knee-band and shoe-strap, his scented hand- 
kerchief, and chapeau beneath his arm, — even 
such a dainty figure need not have disdained to 
glance at these old yellow pages, while they were 
the mirror of passing times. For his amuse- 
ment, there were essays of wit and humor, the 
light literature of the day, which, for breadth 
and license, might have proceeded from the pen 
of Fielding or Smollet ; while, in other columns, 
he would delight his imagination with the 
enumerated items of all sorts of finery, and 
with the rival advertisements of half a dozen 
peruke-makers . 1 In short, newer manners and 
customs had almost entirely superseded those 
of the Puritans, even in their own city of 
refuge. 

It was natural that, with the lapse of time 
and increase of wealth and population, the pecu- 
liarities of the early settlers should have waxed 
fainter and fainter through the generations of 
their descendants, who also had been alloyed by 

1 [“ There was great competition among these artists. Two or three were 
French ; of the Englishmen, one professed to have worked in the best 
shops about London, and another had studied the science in the chief cities 
of Europe. The price of white wigs and grizzels, made of picked human 
hair, was ^ao, old tenor j of light grizzels, £15 ; and of dark grizzels, 
£ 12 1 os. These prices are not so formidable as they appear, money, in 
old tenor, being worth only about a fourth of its original value.” — Foot- 
note in the first issue. ] 


199 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


a continual accession of emigrants from many 
countries and of all characters. It tended to 
assimilate the colonial manners to those of the 
mother country, that the commercial intercourse 
was great, and that the merchants often went 
thither in their own ships. Indeed, almost 
every man of adequate fortune felt a yearning 
desire, and even judged it a filial duty, at least 
once in his life, to visit the home of his ances- 
tors. They still called it their own home, as 
if New England were to them, what many of 
the old Puritans had considered it, not a perma- 
nent abiding-place, but merely a lodge in the 
wilderness, until the trouble of the times should 
be passed. The example of the royal govern- 
ors must have had much influence on the man- 
ners of the colonists ; for these rulers assumed 
a degree of state and splendor which had never 
been practised by their predecessors, who dif- 
fered in nothing from republican chief magis- 
trates, under the old charter. The officers of 
the crown, the public characters in the interest 
of the administration, and the gentlemen of 
wealth and good descent, generally noted for 
their loyalty, would constitute a dignified circle, 
with the governor in the centre, bearing a very 
passable resemblance to a court. Their ideas, 
their habits, their code of courtesy, and their 
dress, would have all the fresh glitter of fashions 
immediately derived from the fountain-head in 
200 


OLD NEWS 


England. To prevent their modes of life from 
becoming the standard with all who had the 
ability to imitate them, there was no longer an 
undue severity of religion, nor as yet any dis- 
affection to British supremacy, nor democratic 
prejudices against pomp. Thus, while the colo- 
nies were attaining that strength which was soon 
to render them an independent republic, it might 
have been supposed that the wealthier classes 
were growing into an aristocracy, and ripening 
for hereditary rank, while the poor were to be 
stationary in their abasement, and the country, 
perhaps, to be a sister monarchy with England. 
Such, doubtless, were the plausible conjectures 
deduced from the superficial phenomena of our 
connection with a monarchical government, 
until the prospective nobility were levelled with 
the mob, by the mere gathering of winds that 
preceded the storm of the Revolution. The 
portents of that storm were not yet visible in 
the air. A true picture of society, therefore, 
would have the rich effect produced by distinc- 
tions of rank that seemed permanent, and by 
appropriate habits of splendor on the part of 
the gentry. 

The people at large had been somewhat 
changed in character, since the period of our 
last sketch, by their great exploit, the conquest 
of Louisburg. After that event, the New Eng- 
landers never settled into precisely the same 
201 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


quiet race which all the world had imagined 
them to be. They had done a deed of history, 
and were anxious to add new ones to the record. 
They had proved themselves powerful enough 
to influence the result of a war, and were thence- 
forth called upon, and willingly consented, to 
join their strength against the enemies of Eng- 
land ; on those fields, at least, where victory 
would redound to their peculiar advantage. 
And now, in the heat of the Old French War, 
they might well be termed a martial people. 
Every man was a soldier, or the father or bro- 
ther of a soldier ; and the whole land literally 
echoed with the roll of the drum, either beating 
up for recruits among the towns and villages, 
or striking the march towards the frontiers. 
Besides the provincial troops, there were twenty- 
three British regiments in the northern colonies. 
The country has never known a period of such 
excitement and warlike life, except during the 
Revolution, — perhaps scarcely then ; for that 
was a lingering war, and this a stirring and 
eventful one. 

One would think that no very wonderful 
talent was requisite for an historical novel, when 
the rough and hurried paragraphs of these news- 
papers can recall the past so magically. We 
seem to be waiting in the street for the arrival 
of the post-rider — who is seldom more than 
twelve hours beyond his time — with letters, by 
202 


OLD NEWS 


way of Albany, from the various departments 
of the army. Or, we may fancy ourselves in 
the circle of listeners, all with necks stretched 
out towards an old gentleman in the centre, who 
deliberately puts on his spectacles, unfolds the 
wet newspaper, and gives us the details of the 
broken and contradictory reports which have 
been flying from mouth to mouth, ever since 
the courier alighted at Secretary Oliver’s office. 
Sometimes we have an account of the Indian 
skirmishes near Lake George, and how a rang- 
ing party of provincials were so closely pursued, 
that they threw away their arms, and eke their 
shoes, stockings, and breeches, barely reaching 
the camp in their shirts, which also were terri- 
bly tattered by the bushes. Then there is a 
journal of the siege of Fort Niagara, so minute 
that it almost numbers the cannon-shot and 
bombs, and describes the effect of the latter 
missiles on the French commandant’s stone 
mansion, within the fortress. In the letters of 
the provincial officers, it is amusing to observe 
how some of them endeavor to catch the care- 
less and jovial turn of old campaigners. One 
gentleman tells us that he holds a brimming 
glass in his hand, intending to drink the health 
of his correspondent, unless a cannon-ball should 
dash the liquor from his lips ; in the midst of his 
letter he hears the bells of the French churches 
ringing, in Quebec, and recollects that it is Sun- 
203 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


day ; whereupon, like a good Protestant, he re- 
solves to disturb the Catholic worship by a few 
thirty-two pound shot. While this wicked man 
of war was thus making a jest of religion, his 
pious mother had probably put up a note, that 
very Sabbath day, desiring the “ prayers of the 
congregation for a son gone a-soldiering. ,, We 
trust, however, that there were some stout old 
worthies who were not ashamed to do as their 
fathers did, but went to prayer, with their sol- 
diers, before leading them to battle ; and doubt- 
less fought none the worse for that. If we 
had enlisted in the Old French War, it should 
have been under such a captain ; for we love 
to see a man keep the characteristics of his 
country . 1 

These letters, and other intelligence from the 
army, are pleasant and lively reading, and stir 
up the mind like the music of a drum and fife. 
It is less agreeable to meet with accounts of 
women slain and scalped, and infants dashed 
against trees, by the Indians on the frontiers. 
It is a striking circumstance that innumerable 
bears, driven from the woods by the uproar of 

1 The contemptuous jealousy of the British army, from the general 
downwards, was very galling to the provincial troops. In one of the 
newspapers, there is an admirable letter of a New England man, copied 
from the London Chronicle, defending the provincials with an ability wor- 
thy of Franklin, and somewhat in his style. The letter is remarkable, 
also, because it takes up the cause of the whole range of colonies, as if the 
writer looked upon them all as constituting one country, and that his own. 
Colonial patriotism had not hitherto been so broad a sentiment. 

204 


OLD NEWS 


contending armies in their accustomed haunts, 
broke into the settlements, and committed great 
ravages among children, as well as sheep and 
swine. Some of them prowled where bears had 
never been for a century, penetrating within a 
mile or two of Boston ; a fact that gives a strong 
and gloomy impression of something very ter- 
rific going on in the forest, since these savage 
beasts fled townward to avoid it. But it is 
impossible to moralize about such trifles, when 
every newspaper contains tales of military en- 
terprise, and often a huzza for victory ; as, for 
instance, the taking of Ticonderoga, long a 
place of awe to the provincials, and one of the 
bloodiest spots in the present war. Nor is it 
unpleasant, among whole pages of exultation, to 
find a note of sorrow for the fall of some brave 
officer ; it comes wailing in, like a funeral strain 
amidst a peal of triumph, itself triumphant too. 
Such was the lamentation over Wolfe. Some- 
where, in this volume of newspapers, though 
we cannot now lay our finger upon the passage, 
we recollect a report that General Wolfe was 
slain, not by the enemy, but by a shot from 
his own soldiers . 1 

In the advertising columns, also, we are con- 
tinually reminded that the country was in a 
state of war. Governor Pownall makes pro- 
clamation for the enlisting of soldiers, and di- 

1 [This sentence was a footnote in the first issue.] 

205 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


rects the militia colonels to attend to the dis- 
cipline of their regiments, and the selectmen 
of every town to replenish their stocks of am- 
munition. The magazine, by the way, was 
generally kept in the upper loft of the village 
meeting-house. The provincial captains are 
drumming up for soldiers, in every newspaper. 
Sir Jeffrey Amherst advertises for batteaux-men, 
to be employed on the lakes ; and gives notice 
to the officers of seven British regiments, dis- 
persed on the recruiting service, to rendezvous 
in Boston. Captain Hallowell, of the province 
ship-of-war King George, invites able-bodied 
seamen to serve his Majesty, for fifteen pounds, 
old tenor, per month . 1 By the rewards offered, 
there would appear to have been frequent 
desertions from the New England forces : we 
applaud their wisdom, if not their valor or in- 
tegrity. Cannon of all calibres, gunpowder and 
balls, firelocks, pistols, swords, and hangers, 
were common articles of merchandise. Daniel 
Jones, at the sign of the hat and helmet, offers 
to supply officers with scarlet broadcloth, gold 
lace for hats and waistcoats, cockades, and other 
military foppery, allowing credit until the pay- 

1 [“At one time there was an impress for this ship sanctioned by the 
provincial authorities. Throughout the war, the British frigates seized 
upon the crews of all vessels, without ceremony, to the great detriment of 
trade. But, some years before, a British Admiral threw Boston into a 
memorable ferment, by recruiting, in the same arbitrary manner, from 
the wharves.” — Footnote in the first issue.] 

206 


OLD NEWS 


rolls shall be made up. This advertisement 
gives us quite a gorgeous idea of a provincial 
captain in full dress. 

At the commencement of the campaign of 
1759, the British general informs the farmers 
of New England that a regular market will be 
established at Lake George, whither they are 
invited to bring provisions and refreshments of 
all sorts, for the use of the army. Hence we 
may form a singular picture of petty traffic, far 
away from any permanent settlements, among 
the hills which border that romantic lake, with 
the solemn woods overshadowing the scene. 
Carcasses of bullocks and fat porkers are placed 
upright against the huge trunks of the trees ; 
fowls hang from the lower branches, bobbing 
against the heads of those beneath ; butter fir- 
kins, great cheeses, and brown loaves of house- 
hold bread, baked in distant ovens, are collected 
under temporary shelters or pine boughs, with 
gingerbread, and pumpkin pies, perhaps, and 
other toothsome dainties. Barrels of cider and 
spruce beer are running freely into the wooden 
canteens of the soldiers. Imagine such a scene, 
beneath the dark forest canopy, with here and 
there a few struggling sunbeams, to dissipate 
the gloom. See the shrewd yeomen, haggling 
with their scarlet-coated customers, abating 
somewhat in their prices, but still dealing at 
monstrous profit ; and then complete the pic- 
207 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


ture with circumstances that bespeak war and 
danger. A cannon shall be seen to belch its 
smoke from among the trees, against some dis- 
tant canoes on the lake ; the traffickers shall 
pause and seem to hearken, at intervals, as if 
they heard the rattle of musketry or the shout 
of Indians ; a scouting party shall be driven in, 
with two or three faint and bloody men among 
them. And, in spite of these disturbances, 
business goes on briskly in the market of the 
wilderness. 

It must not be supposed that the martial 
character of the times interrupted all pursuits 
except those connected with war. On the con- 
trary, there appears to have been a general vigor 
and vivacity diffused into the whole round of 
colonial life. During the winter of 1759, it was 
computed that about a thousand sled-loads of 
country produce were daily brought into Boston 
market. It was a symptom of an irregular and 
unquiet course of affairs, that innumerable lot- 
teries were projected, ostensibly for the pur- 
pose of public improvements, such as roads and 
bridges. 1 Many females seized the opportunity 
to engage in business : as, among others, Alice 
Quick, who dealt in crockery and hosiery, next 
door to Deacon Beautineau’s ; Mary Jackson, 
who sold butter, at the Brazen-Head, in Corn- 
hill ; Abigail Hiller, who taught ornamental 

1 [This sentence was first printed as a footnote.] 

208 


OLD NEWS 


work, near the Orange-Tree, where also were 
to be seen the King and Queen, in wax-work ; 
Sarah Morehead, an instructor in glass painting, 
drawing, and japanning ; Mary Salmon, who 
shod horses, at the South End ; Harriet Pain, 
at the Buck and Glove, and Mrs. Henrietta 
Maria Caine, at the Golden Fan, both fashion- 
able milliners ; Anna Adams, who advertises 
Quebec and Garrick bonnets, Prussian cloaks, 
and scarlet cardinals, opposite the old brick 
meeting-house ; besides a lady at the head of a 
wine and spirit establishment. Little did these 
good dames expect to reappear before the pub- 
lic, so long after they had made their last curt- 
sies behind the counter. Our great-grand- 
mothers were a stirring sisterhood, and seem 
not to have been utterly despised by the gen- 
tlemen at the British Coffee-house ; at least, 
some gracious bachelor, there resident, gives 
public notice of his willingness to take a wife, 
provided she be not above twenty-three, and 
possess brown hair, regular features, a brisk eye, 
and a fortune. Now, this was great condescen- 
sion towards the ladies of Massachusetts Bay, 
in a threadbare lieutenant of foot. 

Polite literature was beginning to make its 
appearance. Few native works were adver- 
tised, it is true, except sermons and treatises of 
controversial divinity ; nor were the English 
authors of the day much known on this side 
209 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


of the Atlantic. But catalogues were frequently 
offered at auction or private sale, comprising 
the standard English books, history, essays, 
and poetry, of Queen Anne’s age, and the pre- 
ceding century. We see nothing in the nature 
of a novel, unless it be “ The Two Mothers, 
price four coppers.” There was an American 
poet, however, of whom Mr. Kettell has pre- 
served no specimen, — the author of cc War, an 
Heroic Poem ; ” he publishes by subscription, 
and threatens to prosecute his patrons for not 
taking their books. We have discovered a 
periodical, also, and one that has a peculiar 
claim to be recorded here, since it bore the title 
of The New England Magazine, a forgot- 
ten predecessor, for which we should have a 
filial respect, and take its excellence on trust. 
The fine arts, too, were budding into existence. 
At the “ old glass and picture shop,” in Corn- 
hill, various maps, plates, and views are adver- 
tised, and among them a “ Prospect of Boston,” 
a copperplate engraving of Quebec, and the 
effigies of all the New England ministers ever 
done in mezzotinto. All these must have been 
very salable articles. Other ornamental wares 
were to be found at the same shop ; such as 
violins, flutes, hautboys, musical books, English 
and Dutch toys, and London babies. About 
this period, Mr. Dipper gives notice of a con- 
cert of vocal and instrumental music. There 


210 


OLD NEWS 


had already been an attempt at theatrical ex- 
hibitions. 1 

There are tokens, in every newspaper, of a 
4 style of luxury and magnificence which we do 
not usually associate with our ideas of the times. 
When the property of a deceased person was 
to be sold, we find, among the household fur- 
niture, silk beds and hangings, damask table- 
cloths, Turkey carpets, pictures, pier-glasses, 
massive plate, and all things proper for a noble 
mansion. Wine was more generally drunk than 
now, though by no means to the neglect of 
ardent spirits. For the apparel of both sexes, 
the mercers and milliners imported good store 
of fine broadcloths, especially scarlet, crimson, 
and sky-blue, silks, satins, lawns, and velvets, 
gold brocade, and gold and silver lace, and sil- 
ver tassels, and silver spangles, until Cornhill 
shone and sparkled with their merchandise. 
The gaudiest dress permissible by modern taste 
fades into a Quaker-like sobriety, compared 
with the deep, rich, glowing splendor of our 
ancestors. Such figures were almost too fine to 
go about town on foot; accordingly, carriages 
were so numerous as to require a tax ; and it is 
recorded that, when Governor Bernard came to 
the province, he was met between Dedham and 
Boston by a multitude of gentlemen in their 
coaches and chariots. 

1 [This sentence also was originally a footnote.] 

211 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


Take my arm, gentle reader, and come with 
me into some street, perhaps trodden by your 
daily footsteps, but which now has such an 
aspect of half-familiar strangeness, that you sus- 
pect yourself to be walking abroad in a dream. 
True, there are some brick edifices which you 
remember from childhood, and which your 
father and grandfather remembered as well ; 
but you are perplexed by the absence of many 
that were here only an hour or two since ; and 
still more amazing is the presence of whole 
rows of wooden and plastered houses, project- 
ing over the sidewalks, and bearing iron figures 
on their fronts, which prove them to have stood 
on the same sites above a century. Where have 
your eyes been that you never saw them before ? 
Along the ghostly street, — for, at length, you 
conclude that all is unsubstantial, though it be 
so good a mockery of an antique town, — along 
the ghostly street, there are ghostly people too. 
Every gentleman has his three-cornered hat, 
either on his head or under his arm ; and all 
wear wigs in infinite variety, — the Tie, the 
Brigadier, the Spencer, the Albemarle, the Ma- 
jor, the Ramillies, the grave Full-bottom, or 
the giddy Feather-top. Look at the elaborate 
lace ruffles, and the square-skirted coats of gor- 
geous hues, bedizened with silver and gold ! 
Make way for the phantom ladies, whose hoops 
require such breadth of passage, as they pace 
212 


OLD NEWS 


majestically along, in silken gowns, blue, green, 
or yellow, brilliantly embroidered, and with 
small satin hats surmounting their powdered 
hair. Make way ; for the whole spectral show 
will vanish, if your earthly garments brush 
against their robes. Now that the scene is 
brightest, and the whole street glitters with im- 
aginary sunshine, — now hark to the bells of 
the Old South and the Old North, ringing out 
with a sudden and merry peal, while the cannon 
of Castle William thunder below the town, and 
those of the Diana frigate repeat the sound, 
and the Charlestown batteries reply with a 
nearer roar! You see the crowd toss up their 
hats in visionary joy. You hear of illumina- 
tions and fireworks, and of bonfires, built on 
scaffolds, raised several stories above the ground, 
that are to blaze all night in King Street and 
on Beacon Hill. And here come the trumpets 
and kettle-drums, and the tramping hoofs of 
the Boston troop of horse guards, escorting 
the governor to King's Chapel, where he is to 
return solemn thanks for the surrender of Que- 
bec. March on, thou shadowy troop ! and van- 
ish, ghostly crowd ! and change again, old street ! 
for those stirring times are gone. 

Opportunely for the conclusion of our sketch, 
a fire broke out, on the twentieth of March, 
1760, at the Brazen-Head, in Cornhill, and 
consumed nearly four hundred buildings. Sim- 
213 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


ilar disasters have always been epochs in the 
chronology of Boston. That of 17 11 had hith- 
erto been termed the Great Fire, but now re- 
signed its baleful dignity to one which has ever 
since retained it. Did we desire to move the 
reader's sympathies on this subject, we would 
not be grandiloquent about the sea of billowy 
flame, the glowing and crumbling streets, the 
broad, black firmament of smoke, and the 
blast of wind that sprang up with the conflagra- 
tion and roared behind it. It would be more 
effective to mark out a single family at the 
moment when the flames caught upon an angle 
of their dwelling : then would ensue the removal 
of the bedridden grandmother, the cradle with 
the sleeping infant, and, most dismal of all, the 
dying man just at the extremity of a lingering 
disease. Do but imagine the confused agony 
of one thus awfully disturbed in his last hour, 
his fearful glance behind at the consuming fire 
raging after him, from house to house, as its 
devoted victim ; and, finally, the almost eager- 
ness with which he would seize some calmer 
interval to die ! The Great Fire must have 
realized many such a scene. 

Doubtless posterity has acquired a better city 
by the calamity of that generation. None will 
be inclined to lament it at this late day, except 
the lover of antiquity, who would have been 
glad to walk among those streets of venerable 
214 


OLD NEWS 


houses, fancying the old inhabitants still there, 
that he might commune with their shadows, 
and paint a more vivid picture of their times. 

III. THE OLD TORY 

Again we take a leap of about twenty years, 
and alight in the midst of the Revolution. In- 
deed, having just closed a volume of colonial 
newspapers, which represented the period when 
monarchical and aristocratic sentiments were at 
the highest, — and now opening another vol- 
ume printed in the same metropolis, after such 
sentiments had long been deemed a sin and 
shame, — we feel as if the leap were more than 
figurative. Our late course of reading has tinc- 
tured us, for the moment, with antique preju- 
dices ; and we shrink from the strangely con- 
trasted times into which we emerge, like one of 
those immutable old Tories, who acknowledged 
no oppression in the Stamp Act. It may be the 
most effective method of going through the pre- 
sent file of papers, to follow out this idea, and 
transform ourself, perchance, from a modern 
Tory into such a sturdy King-man as once wore 
that pliable nickname. 

Well, then, here we sit, an old, gray, withered, 
sour-visaged, threadbare sort of gentleman, erect 
enough, here in our solitude, but marked out 
by a depressed and distrustful mien abroad, as 
one conscious of a stigma upon his forehead, 
215 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

though for no crime. We were already in the 
decline of life when the first tremors of the 
earthquake that has convulsed the continent 
were felt. Our mind had grown too rigid to 
change any of its opinions, when the voice of 
the people demanded that all should be changed. 
We are an Episcopalian, and sat under the 
High-Church doctrines of Dr. Caner ; we have 
been a captain of the provincial forces, and love 
our king the better for the blood that we shed 
in his cause on the Plains of Abraham. Among 
all the refugees, there is not one more loyal to 
the backbone than we. Still we lingered be- 
hind when the British army evacuated Boston, 
sweeping in its train most of those with whom 
we held communion ; the old, loyal gentlemen, 
the aristocracy of the colonies, the hereditary 
Englishman, imbued with more than native 
zeal and admiration for the glorious island and 
its monarch, because the far-intervening ocean 
threw a dim reverence around them. When our 
brethren departed, we could not tear our aged 
roots out of the soil. We have remained, there- 
fore, enduring to be outwardly a freeman, but 
idolizing King George in secrecy and silence, — 
one true old heart amongst a host of enemies. 
We watch, with a weary hope, for the moment 
when all this turmoil shall subside, and the 
impious novelty that has distracted our latter 
years, like a wild dream, give place to the 
216 


OLD NEWS 


blessed quietude of royal sway, with the king’s 
name in every ordinance, his prayer in the 
church, his health at the board, and his love in 
the people’s heart. Meantime, our old age finds 
little honor. Hustled have we been, till driven 
from town-meetings ; dirty water has been cast 
upon our ruffles by a Whig chambermaid; John 
Hancock’s coachman seizes every opportunity 
to bespatter us with mud ; daily are we hooted 
by the unbreeched rebel brats ; and narrowly, 
once, did our gray hairs escape the ignominy of 
tar and feathers. Alas ! only that we cannot 
bear to die till the next royal governor comes 
over, we would fain be in our quiet grave. 

Such an old man among new things are we 
who now hold at arm’s-length the rebel news- 
paper of the day. The very figure-head, for 
the thousandth time, elicits a groan of spiteful 
lamentation. Where are the united heart and 
crown, the loyal emblem, that used to hallow 
the sheet on which it was impressed in our 
younger days ? In its stead we find a continental 
officer, with the Declaration of Independence 
in one hand, a drawn sword in the other, and 
above his head a scroll, bearing the motto, 
“We appeal to Heaven.” Then say we, with 
a prospective triumph, let Heaven judge, in its 
own good time ! The material of the sheet 
attracts our scorn. It is a fair specimen of rebel 
manufacture, thick and coarse, like wrapping- 
217 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


paper, all overspread with little knobs ; and of 
such a deep, dingy blue color, that we wipe our 
spectacles thrice before we can distinguish a 
letter of the wretched print. Thus, in all points, 
the newspaper is a type of the times, far more 
fit for the rough hands of a democratic mob 
than for our own delicate, though bony fingers. 
Nay ; we will not handle it without our gloves ! 

Glancing down the page, our eyes are greeted 
everywhere by the offer of lands at auction, for 
sale or to be leased, not by the rightful owners, 
but a rebel committee ; notices of the town con- 
stable, that he is authorized to receive the taxes 
on such an estate, in default of which, that also 
is to be knocked down to the highest bidder ; 
and notifications of complaints filed by the attor- 
ney-general against certain traitorous absentees, 
and of confiscations that are to ensue. And 
who are these traitors ? Our own best friends ; 
names as old, once as honored, as any in the 
land where they are no longer to have a patri- 
mony, nor to be remembered as good men who 
have passed away. We are ashamed of not 
relinquishing our little property, too ; but com- 
fort ourselves because we still keep our prin- 
ciples, without gratifying the rebels with our 
plunder. Plunder, indeed, they are seizing 
everywhere, — by the strong hand at sea, as 
well as by legal forms on shore. Here are 
prize vessels for sale ; no French nor Spanish 
218 


OLD NEWS 


merchantmen, whose wealth is the birthright of 
British subjects, but hulls of British oak, from 
Liverpool, Bristol, and the Thames, laden with 
the king’s own stores, for his army in New York. 
And what a fleet of privateers — pirates, say we 
— are fitting out for new ravages, with rebellion 
in their very names ! The Free Yankee, the 
General Greene, the Saratoga, the Lafayette, 
and the Grand Monarch ! Yes, the Grand 
Monarch ; so is a French king styled by the 
sons of Englishmen. And here we have an 
ordinance from the Court of Versailles, with the 
Bourbon’s own signature affixed, as if New Eng- 
land were already a French province. Every^ 
thing is French, — French soldiers, French sail- 
ors, French surgeons, and French diseases too, 
I trow ; besides French dancing-masters and 
French milliners, to debauch our daughters with 
French fashions ! Everything in America is 
French, except the Canadas, the loyal Canadas, 
which we helped to wrest from France. And 
to that old French province the Englishman of 
the colonies must go to find his country ! 

O, the misery of seeing the whole system of 
things changed in my old days, when I would 
be loath to change even a pair of buckles ! The 
British Coffee-house, where oft we sat, brimful 
of wine and loyalty, with the gallant gentlemen 
of Amherst’s army, when we wore a red coat 
too, — the British Coffee-house, forsooth, must 
219 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


now be styled the American, with a golden eagle 
instead of the royal arms above the door. Even 
the street it stands in is no longer King Street ! 
Nothing is the king’s, except this heavy heart 
in my old bosom. Wherever I glance my eyes, 
they meet something that pricks them like a 
needle. This soap-maker, for instance, this 
Robert Hewes, has conspired against my peace, 
by notifying that his shop is situated near Lib- 
erty Stump. But when will their misnamed 
liberty have its true emblem in that Stump, 
hewn down by British steel ? 

Where shall we buy our next year’s almanac ? 
Not this of Weatherwise’s, certainly; for it 
contains a likeness of George Washington, the 
upright rebel, whom we most hate, though rev- 
erentially, as a fallen angel, with his heavenly 
brightness undiminished, evincing pure fame in 
an unhallowed cause. And here is a new book 
for my evening’s recreation, — a History of the 
War till the close of the year 1779, with the 
heads of thirteen distinguished officers, engraved 
on copperplate. A plague upon their heads ! 
We desire not to see them till they grin at us 
from the balcony before the town-house, fixed 
on spikes, as the heads of traitors. How bloody 
minded the villains make a peaceable old man ! 
What next ? An Oration, on the Horrid Mas- 
sacre of 1770. When that blood was shed, — 
the first that the British soldier ever drew from 


220 


OLD NEWS 


the bosoms of our countrymen, — we turned 
sick at heart, and do so still, as often as they 
make it reek anew from among the stones in 
King Street. The pool that we saw that night 
has swelled into a lake, — English blood and 
American, — no ! all British, all blood of my 
brethren. And here come down tears. Shame 
on me, since half of them are shed for rebels ! 
Who are not rebels now ! Even the women 
are thrusting their white hands into the war, and 
come out in this very paper with proposals to 
form a society — the lady of George Washing- 
ton at their head — for clothing the continental 
toops. They will strip off their stiff petticoats 
to cover the ragged rascals, and then enlist in 
the ranks themselves. 

What have we here ? Burgoyne's procla- 
mation turned into Hudibrastic rhyme ! And 
here, some verses against the king, in which the 
scribbler leaves a blank for the name of George, 
as if his doggerel might yet exalt him to the 
pillory. Such, after years of rebellion, is the 
heart's unconquerable reverence for the Lord's 
anointed ! In the next column, we have Scrip- 
ture parodied in a squib against his sacred Ma- 
jesty. What would our Puritan great-grandsires 
have said to that? They never laughed at 
God's word, though they cut off a king's head. 

Yes, it was for us to prove how disloyalty 
goes hand in hand with irreligion, and all other 
221 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


vices come trooping in the train. Nowadays 
men commit robbery and sacrilege for the mere 
luxury of wickedness, as this advertisement tes- 
tifies. Three hundred pounds reward for the 
detection of the villains who stole and destroyed 
the cushions and pulpit drapery of the Brattle 
Street and Old South churches. Was it a crime ? 
I can scarcely think our temples hallowed since 
the king ceased to be prayed for. But it is not 
temples only that they rob. Here a man offers 
a thousand dollars — a thousand dollars in Con- 
tinental rags ! — for the recovery of his stolen 
cloak and other articles of clothing. Horse 
thieves are innumerable. Now is the day when 
every beggar gets on horseback. And is not 
the whole land like a beggar on horseback rid- 
ing post to the Devil ? Ha ! here is a murder, 
too. A woman slain at midnight, by an un- 
known ruffian, and found cold, stiff, and bloody, 
in her violated bed ! Let the hue and cry fol- 
low hard after the man in the uniform of blue 
and buff who last went by that way. My life 
on it, he is the blood-stained ravisher ! These 
deserters whom we see proclaimed in every 
column, — proof that the banditti are as false 
to their Stars and Stripes as to the Holy Red 
Cross, — they bring the crimes of a rebel camp 
into a soil well suited to them ; the bosom of a 
people, without the heart that kept them virtu- 
ous, — their king ! 


OLD NEWS 


Here, flaunting down a whole column, with 
official seal and signature, here comes a procla- 
mation. By whose authority ? Ah! the United 
States, — these thirteen little anarchies, assem- 
bled in that one grand anarchy, their Congress. 
And what the import ? A general Fast. By 
Heaven ! for once the traitorous blockheads 
have legislated wisely ! Yea ; let a misguided 
people kneel down in sackcloth and ashes, from 
end to end, from border to border, of their 
wasted country. Well may they fast where 
there is no food, and cry aloud for whatever 
remnant of God’s mercy their sins may not have 
exhausted. We too will fast, even at a rebel 
summons. Pray others as they will, there shall 
be at least an old man kneeling for the right- 
eous cause. Lord, put down the rebels ! God 
save the king ! 

Peace to the good old Tory ! One of our 
objects has been to exemplify, without softening 
a single prejudice proper to the character which 
we assumed, that the Americans who clung to 
the losing side in the Revolution were men 
greatly to be pitied and often worthy of our 
sympathy. It would be difficult to say whose 
lot was most lamentable, that of the active To- 
ries, who gave up their patrimonies for a pittance 
from the British pension-roll, and their native 
land for a cold reception in their miscalled home, 
or the passive ones who remained behind to 
223 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

endure the coldness of former friends, and the 
public opprobrium, as despised citizens, under 
a government which they abhorred. In justice 
to the old gentleman who has favored us with 
his discontented musings, we must remark that 
the state of the country, so far as can be gath- 
ered from these papers, was of dismal augury 
for the tendencies of democratic rule. It was 
pardonable in the conservative of that day to 
mistake the temporary evils of a change for 
permanent diseases of the system which that 
change was to establish. A revolution, or any- 
thing that interrupts social order, may afford 
opportunities for the individual display of emi- 
nent virtues ; but its effects are pernicious to 
general morality. Most people are so consti- 
tuted that they can be virtuous only in a certain 
routine, and an irregular course of public affairs 
demoralizes them. One great source of dis- 
order was the multitude of disbanded troops, 
who were continually returning home, after 
terms of service just long enough to give them 
a distaste to peaceable occupation ; neither citi- 
zens nor soldiers, they were very liable to be- 
come ruffians. Almost all our impressions in 
regard to this period are unpleasant, whether 
referring to the state of civil society, or to the 
character of the contest, which, especially where 
native Americans were opposed to each other, 
was waged with the deadly hatred of fraternal 
224 


OLD NEWS 


enemies. It is the beauty of war, for men to 
commit mutual havoc with undisturbed good- 
humor. 

The present volume of newspapers contains 
fewer characteristic traits than any which we 
have looked over. Except for the peculiarities 
attendant on the passing struggle, manners seem 
to have taken a modern cast. Whatever an- 
tique fashions lingered into the War of the Re- 
volution, or beyond it, they were not so strongly 
marked as to leave their traces in the public 
journals. Moreover, the old newspapers had 
an indescribable picturesqueness, not to be found 
in the later ones. Whether it be something in 
the literary execution, or the ancient print and 
paper, and the idea that those same musty pages 
have been handled by people once alive and 
bustling amid the scenes there recorded, yet 
now in their graves beyond the memory of man ; 
so it is, that in those elder volumes we seem to 
find the life of a past age preserved between the 
leaves, like a dry specimen of foliage. It is so 
difficult to discover what touches are really pic- 
turesque, that we doubt whether our attempts 
have produced any similar effect. 

225 


THE MAN OF ADAMANT 


AN APOLOGUE 

I N the old times of religious gloom and in- 
tolerance lived Richard Digby, the gloom- 
iest and most intolerant of a stern brother- 
hood. His plan of salvation was so narrow, 
that, like a plank in a tempestuous sea, it could 
avail no sinner but himself, who bestrode it 
triumphantly, and hurled anathemas against 
the wretches whom he saw struggling with the 
billows of eternal death. In his view of the 
matter, it was a most abominable crime — as, 
indeed, it is a great folly — for men to trust to 
their own strength, or even to grapple to any 
other fragment of the wreck, save this narrow 
plank, which, moreover, he took special care to 
keep out of their reach. In other words, as his 
creed was like no man’s else, and being well 
pleased that Providence had intrusted him alone, 
of mortals, with the treasure of a true faith, 
Richard Digby determined to seclude himself 
to the sole and constant enjoyment of his happy 
fortune. 

“ And verily,” thought he, “ I deem it a 
chief condition of Heaven’s mercy to myself, 
226 


THE MAN OF ADAMANT 


that I hold no communion with those abomin- 
able myriads which it hath cast off to perish. 
Peradventure, were I to tarry longer in the tents 
of Kedar, the gracious boon would be revoked, 
and I also be swallowed up in the deluge of 
wrath, or consumed in the storm of fire and 
brimstone, or involved in whatever new kind 
of ruin is ordained for the horrible perversity 
of this generation.” 

So Richard Digby took an axe, to hew space 
enough for a tabernacle in the wilderness, and 
some few other necessaries, especially a sword 
and gun, to smite and slay any intruder upon 
his hallowed seclusion, and plunged into the 
dreariest depths of the forest. On its verge, 
however, he paused a moment, to shake off the 
dust of his feet against the village where he had 
dwelt, and to invoke a curse on the meeting- 
house, which he regarded as a temple of heathen 
idolatry. He felt a curiosity, also, to see 
whether the fire and brimstone would not rush 
down from heaven at once, now that the one 
righteous man had provided for his own safety. 
But, as the sunshine continued to fall peacefully 
on the cottages and fields, and the husbandmen 
labored and children played, and as there were 
many tokens of present happiness, and nothing 
ominous of a speedy judgment, he turned away, 
somewhat disappointed. The farther he went, 
however, and the lonelier he felt himself, and 
227 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


the thicker the trees stood along his path, and 
the darker the shadow overhead, so much the 
more did Richard Digby exult. He talked to 
himself as he strode onward ; he read his Bible 
to himself as he sat beneath the trees ; and, as 
the gloom of the forest hid the blessed sky, I 
had almost added, that, at morning, noon, and 
eventide, he prayed to himself. So congenial 
was this mode of life to his disposition, that he 
often laughed to himself, but was displeased 
when an echo tossed him back the long, loud 
roar. 

In this manner he journeyed onward three 
days and two nights, and came, on the third 
evening, to the mouth of a cave, which, at first 
sight, reminded him of Elijah’s cave at Horeb, 
though perhaps it more resembled Abraham’s 
sepulchral cave at Machpelah. It entered into 
the heart of a rocky hill. There was so dense 
a veil of tangled foliage about it, that none but 
a sworn lover of gloomy recesses would have 
discovered the low arch of its entrance, or have 
dared to step within its vaulted chamber, where 
the burning eyes of a panther might encounter 
him. If Nature meant this remote and dismal 
cavern for the use of man, it could only be to 
bury in its gloom the victims of a pestilence, 
and then to block up its mouth with stones, and 
avoid the spot forever after. There was nothing 
bright nor cheerful near it, except a bubbling 
228 


THE MAN OF ADAMANT 


fountain, some twenty paces off, at which Rich- 
ard Digby hardly threw away a glance. But he 
thrust his head into the cave, shivered, and con- 
gratulated himself. 

“ The finger of Providence hath pointed my 
way ! ” cried he aloud, while the tomb-like den 
returned a strange echo, as if some one within 
were mocking him. “ Here my soul will be at 
peace ; for the wicked will not find me. Here 
I can read the Scriptures, and be no more pro- 
voked with lying interpretations. Here I can 
offer up acceptable prayers, because my voice 
will not be mingled with the sinful supplications 
of the multitude. Of a truth, the only way to 
heaven leadeth through the narrow entrance of 
this cave, — and I alone have found it ! ” 

In regard to this cave, it was observable that 
the roof, so far as the imperfect light permitted 
it to be seen, was hung with substances resem- 
bling opaque icicles ; for the damps of unknown 
centuries, dripping down continually, had be- 
come as hard as adamant ; and wherever that 
moisture fell, it seemed to possess the power of 
converting what it bathed to stone. The fallen 
leaves and sprigs of foliage, which the wind had 
swept into the cave, and the little feathery 
shrubs, rooted near the threshold, were not wet 
with a natural dew, but had been embalmed by 
this wondrous process. And here I am put in 
mind that Richard Digby, before he withdrew 
229 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


himself from the world, was supposed by skilful 
physicians to have contracted a disease for which 
no remedy was written in their medical books. 
It was a deposition of calculous particles within 
his heart, caused by an obstructed circulation 
of the blood ; and, unless a miracle should be 
wrought for him, there was danger that the 
malady might act on the entire substance of the 
organ, and change his fleshy heart to stone. 
Many, indeed, affirmed that the process was al- 
ready near its consummation. Richard Digby, 
however, could never be convinced that any 
such direful work was going on within him ; 
nor when he saw the sprigs of marble foliage, 
did his heart even throb the quicker, at the 
similitude suggested by these once tender herbs. 
It may be that this same insensibility was a 
symptom of the disease. 

Be that as it might, Richard Digby was well 
contented with his sepulchral cave. So dearly 
did he love this congenial spot, that, instead of 
going a few paces to the bubbling spring for 
water, he allayed his thirst with now and then 
a drop of moisture from the roof, which, had it 
fallen anywhere but on his tongue, would have 
been congealed into a pebble. For a man pre- 
disposed to stoniness of the heart, this surely 
was unwholesome liquor. But there he dwelt 
for three days more, eating herbs and roots, 
drinking his own destruction, sleeping, as it 
230 


THE MAN OF ADAMANT 

were, in a tomb, and awaking to the solitude of 
death, yet esteeming this horrible mode of life 
as hardly inferior to celestial bliss. Perhaps 
superior ; for above the sky, there would be 
angels to disturb him. At the close of the 
third day, he sat in the portal of his mansion, 
reading the Bible aloud, because no other ear 
could profit by it, and reading it amiss, because 
the rays of the setting sun did not penetrate 
the dismal depth of shadow round about him, 
nor fall upon the sacred page. Suddenly, how- 
ever, a faint gleam of light was thrown over the 
volume, and, raising his eyes, Richard Digby 
saw that a young woman stood before the mouth 
of the cave, and that the sunbeams bathed her 
white garment, which thus seemed to possess a 
radiance of its own. 

<c Good evening, Richard,” said the girl ; “ I 
have come from afar to find thee.” 

The slender grace and gentle loveliness of 
this young woman were at once recognized by 
Richard Digby. Her name was Mary Goffe. 
She had been a convert to his preaching of the 
word in England, before he yielded himself to 
that exclusive bigotry which now enfolded him 
with such an iron grasp that no other sentiment 
could reach his bosom. When he came a pil- 
grim to America, she had remained in her fa- 
ther's hall ; but now, as it appeared, had crossed 
the ocean after him, impelled by the same faith 
23 1 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


that led other exiles hither, and perhaps by love 
almost as holy. What else but faith and love 
united could have sustained so delicate a crea- 
ture, wandering thus far into the forest, with 
her golden hair dishevelled by the boughs, and 
her feet wounded by the thorns ? Yet, weary and 
faint though she must have been, and affrighted 
at the dreariness of the cave, she looked on 
the lonely man with a mild and pitying expres- 
sion, such as might beam from an angel’s eyes 
towards an afflicted mortal. But the recluse, 
frowning sternly upon her, and keeping his 
finger between the leaves of his half-closed 
Bible, motioned her away with his hand. 

“ Off! ” cried he. “ I am sanctified, and thou 
art sinful. Away ! ” 

“ O Richard,” said she earnestly, <c I have 
come this weary way because I heard that a 
grievous distemper had seized upon thy heart ; 
and a great Physician hath given me the skill 
to cure it. There is no other remedy than 
this which I have brought thee. Turn me not 
away, therefore, nor refuse my medicine; for 
then must this dismal cave be thy sepulchre.” 

“ Away ! ” replied Richard Digby, still with 
a dark frown. <f My heart is in better condi- 
tion than thine own. Leave me, earthly one ; 
for the sun is almost set ; and when no light 
reaches the door of the cave, then is my prayer- 
time.” 


232 


THE MAN OF ADAMANT 


Now, great as was her need, Mary Goffe did 
not plead with this stony-hearted man for shel- 
ter and protection, nor ask anything whatever 
for her own sake. All her zeal was for his 
welfare. 

“ Come back with me ! ” she exclaimed, clasp- 
ing her hands, — “ come back to thy fellow 
men; for they need thee, Richard, and thou 
hast tenfold need of them. Stay not in this 
evil den ; for the air is chill, and the damps are 
fatal ; nor will any that perish within it ever 
find the path to heaven. Hasten hence, I en- 
treat thee, for thine own soul’s sake ; for either 
the roof will fall upon thy head, or some other 
speedy destruction is at hand.” 

<c Perverse woman ! ” answered Richard 
Digby, laughing aloud, — for he was moved to 
bitter mirth by her foolish vehemence, — “ I 
tell thee that the path to heaven leadeth straight 
through this narrow portal where I sit. And, 
moreover, the destruction thou speakest of is 
ordained, not for this blessed cave, but for all 
other habitations of mankind, throughout the 
earth. Get thee hence speedily, that thou mayst 
have thy share ! ” 

So saying, he opened his Bible again, and 
fixed his eyes intently on the page, being re- 
solved to withdraw his thoughts from this child 
of sin and wrath, and to waste no more of his 
holy breath upon her. The shadow had now 
2 33 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


grown so deep, where he was sitting, that he 
made continual mistakes in what he read, con- 
verting all that was gracious and merciful to 
denunciations of vengeance and unutterable woe 
on every created being but himself. Mary 
Goffe, meanwhile, was leaning against a tree, 
beside the sepulchral cave, very sad, yet with 
something heavenly and ethereal in her unself- 
ish sorrow. The light from the setting sun still 
glorified her form, and was reflected a little way 
within the darksome den, discovering so terri- 
ble a gloom that the maiden shuddered for its 
self-doomed inhabitant. Espying the bright 
fountain near at hand, she hastened thither, and 
scooped up a portion of its water in a cup of 
birchen bark. A few tears mingled with the 
draught, and perhaps gave it all its efficacy. 
She then returned to the mouth of the cave, 
and knelt down at Richard Digby’s feet. 

cc Richard,” she said with passionate fervor, 
yet a gentleness in all her passion, “ I pray thee, 
by thy hope of heaven, and as thou wouldst 
not dwell in this tomb forever, drink of this 
hallowed water, be it but a single drop ! Then, 
make room for me by thy side, and let us read 
together one page of that blessed volume ; and, 
lastly, kneel down with me and pray ! Do this, 
and thy stony heart shall become softer than a 
babe’s and all be well.” 

But Richard Digby, in utter abhorrence of 
234 


THE MAN OF ADAMANT 


the proposal, cast the Bible at his feet, and 
eyed her with such a fixed and evil frown, that 
he looked less like a living man than a mar- 
ble statue, wrought by some dark-imagined 
sculptor to express the most repulsive mood 
that human features could assume. And, as 
his look grew even devilish, so, with an equal 
change, did Mary Goffe become more sad, more 
mild, more pitiful, more like a sorrowing angel. 
But, the more heavenly she was, the more hate- 
ful did she seem to Richard Digby, who at 
length raised his hand, and smote down the 
cup of hallowed water upon the threshold of 
the cave, thus rejecting the only medicine that 
could have cured his stony heart. A sweet per- 
fume lingered in the air for a moment, and then 
was gone. 

<c Tempt me no more, accursed woman,” ex- 
claimed he, still with his marble frown, <c lest I 
smite thee down also ! What hast thou to do 
with my Bible ? — what with my prayers ? — 
what with my heaven ? ” 

No sooner had he spoken these dreadful 
words, than Richard Digby’s heart ceased to 
beat ; while — so the legend says — the form 
of Mary Goffe melted into the last sunbeams, 
and returned from the sepulchral cave to hea- 
ven. For Mary Goffe had been buried in an 
English churchyard, months before ; and either 
it was her ghost that haunted the wild forest, 
235 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

or else a dream-like spirit, typifying pure Reli- 
gion. 

Above a century afterwards, when the track- 
less forest of Richard Digby’s day had long 
been interspersed with settlements, the children 
of a neighboring farmer were playing at the foot 
of a hill. The trees, on account of the rude 
and broken surface of this acclivity, had never 
been felled, and were crowded so densely to- 
gether as to hide all but a few rocky promi- 
nences, wherever their roots could grapple with 
the soil. A little boy and girl, to conceal them- 
selves from their playmates, had crept into the 
deepest shade, where not only the darksome 
pines, but a thick veil of creeping plants sus- 
pended from an overhanging rock, combined to 
make a twilight at noonday, and almost a mid- 
night at all other seasons. There the children hid 
themselves, and shouted, repeating the cry at 
intervals, till the whole party of pursuers were 
drawn thither, and, pulling aside the matted foli- 
age, let in a doubtful glimpse of daylight. But 
scarcely was this accomplished, when the little 
group uttered a simultaneous shriek, and tum- 
bled headlong down the hill, making the best of 
their way homeward, without a second glance 
into the gloomy recess. Their father, unable 
to comprehend what had so startled them, took 
his axe, and, by felling one or two trees, and 
tearing away the creeping plants, laid the mys- 
236 


THE MAN OF ADAMANT 


tery open to the day. He had discovered the 
entrance of a cave, closely resembling the mouth 
of a sepulchre, within which sat the figure of a 
man, whose gesture and attitude warned the 
father and children to stand back, while his vis- 
age wore a most forbidding frown. This repul- 
sive personage seemed to have been carved in 
the same gray stone that formed the walls and 
portal of the cave. On minuter inspection, in- 
deed, such blemishes were observed as made it 
doubtful whether the figure were really a statue, 
chiselled by human art, and somewhat worn and 
defaced by the lapse of ages, or a freak of Na- 
ture, who might have chosen to imitate, in stone, 
her usual handiwork of flesh. Perhaps it was 
the least unreasonable idea, suggested by this 
strange spectacle, that the moisture of the cave 
possessed a petrifying quality, which had thus 
awfully embalmed a human corpse. 

There was something so frightful in the as- 
pect of this Man of Adamant, that the farmer, 
the moment that he recovered from the fascina- 
tion of his first gaze, began to heap stones into 
the mouth of the cavern. His wife, who had 
followed him to the hill, assisted her husband's 
efforts. The children, also, approached as near 
as they durst, with their little hands full of peb- 
bles, and cast them on the pile. Earth was then 
thrown into the crevices, and the whole fabric 
overlaid with sods. Thus all traces of the dis- 
237 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


covery were obliterated, leaving only a marvel- 
lous legend, which grew wilder from one gener- 
ation to another, as the children told it to their 
grandchildren, and they to their posterity, till 
few believed that there had ever been a cavern 
or a statue, where now they saw but a grassy 
patch on the shadowy hillside. Yet grown 
people avoid the spot, nor do children play 
there. Friendship, and Love, and Piety, all 
human and celestial sympathies, should keep 
aloof from that hidden cave ; for there still sits, 
and, unless an earthquake crumble down the 
roof upon his head, shall sit forever, the shape 
of Richard Digby, in the attitude of repelling 
the whole race of mortals, — not from heaven, 
— but from the horrible loneliness of his dark, 
cold sepulchre. 


238 


THE DEVIL IN MANUSCRIPT 

O N a bitter evening of December, I ar- 
rived by mail in a large town, which 
was then the residence of an intimate 
friend, one of those gifted youths who cultivate 
poetry and the belles-lettres, and call themselves 
students at law. My first business, after sup- 
per, was to visit him at the office of his distin- 
guished instructor. As I have said, it was a 
bitter night, clear starlight, but cold as Nova 
Zembla, — the shop-windows along the street 
being frosted, so as almost to hide the lights, 
while the wheels of coaches thundered equally 
loud over frozen earth and pavements of stone. 
There was no snow, either on the ground or 
the roofs of the houses. The wind blew so 
violently, that I had but to spread my cloak 
like a mainsail, and scud along the street at the 
rate of ten knots, greatly envied by other navi- 
gators, who were beating slowly up, with the 
gale right in their teeth. One of these I cap- 
sized, but was gone on the wings of the wind 
before he could even vociferate an oath. 

After this picture of an inclement night, 
behold us seated by a great blazing fire, which 
looked so comfortable and delicious that I felt 
239 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


inclined to lie down and roll among the hot 
coals. The usual furniture of a lawyer’s office 
was around us, — rows of volumes in sheepskin, 
and a multitude of writs, summonses, and other 
legal papers, scattered over the desks and tables. 
But there were certain objects which seemed to 
intimate that we had little dread of the intrusion 
of clients, or of the learned counsellor himself, 
who, indeed, was attending court in a distant 
town. A tall, decanter-shaped bottle stood on 
the table, between two tumblers, and beside a 
pile of blotted manuscripts, altogether dissimi- 
lar to any law documents recognized in our 
courts. My friend, whom I shall call Oberon, 
— it was a name of fancy and friendship be- 
tween him and me, — my friend Oberon looked 
at these papers with a peculiar expression of 
disquietude. 

“ I do believe,” said he soberly, “ or, at least, 
I could believe, if I chose, that there is a devil 
in this pile of blotted papers. You have read 
them, and know what I mean, — that concep- 
tion in which I endeavored to embody the char- 
acter of a fiend, as represented in our traditions 
and the written records of witchcraft. O, I have 
a horror of what was created in my own brain, 
and shudder at the manuscripts in which I gavt 
that dark idea a sort of material existence ! 
Would they were out of my sight ! ” 

“And of mine, too,” thought I. 

240 


THE DEVIL IN MANUSCRIPT 


cc You remember,” continued Oberon, “how 
the hellish thing used to suck away the happi- 
ness of those who, by a simple concession that 
seemed almost innocent, subjected themselves 
to his power. Just so my peace is gone, and all 
by these accursed manuscripts. Have you felt 
nothing of the same influence ? ” 

“Nothing,” replied I, “unless the spell be 
hid in a desire to turn novelist, after reading 
your delightful tales.” 

“Novelist!” exclaimed Oberon half seri- 
ously. “ Then, indeed, my devil has his claw 
on you ! You are gone ! You cannot even 
pray for deliverance ! But we will be the last 
and only victims ; for this night I mean to burn 
the manuscripts, and commit the fiend to his 
retribution in the flames.” 

“ Burn your tales ! ” repeated I, startled at 
the desperation of the idea. 

“ Even so,” said the author despondingly. 
“You cannot conceive what an effect the com- 
position of these tales has had on me. I have 
become ambitious of a bubble, and careless of 
solid reputation. I am surrounding myself 
with shadows, which bewilder me, by aping the 
realities of life. They have drawn me aside 
from the beaten path of the world, and led me 
into a strange sort of solitude, — a solitude in 
the midst of men, — where nobody wishes for 
what I do, nor thinks nor feels as I do. The 
241 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


tales have done all this. When they are ashes, 
perhaps I shall be as I was before they had 
existence. Moreover, the sacrifice is less than 
you may suppose, since nobody will publish 
them.” 

“ That does make a difference, indeed,” said I. 

cc They have been offered, by letter,” con- 
tinued Oberon, reddening with vexation, “ to 
some seventeen booksellers. It would make 
you stare to read their answers ; and read them 
you should, only that I burnt them as fast as 
they arrived. One man publishes nothing but 
school-books ; another has five novels already 
under examination.” 

“ What a voluminous mass the unpublished 
literature of America must be ! ” cried I. 

“ O, the Alexandrian manuscripts were no- 
thing to it ! ” said my friend. “ Well, another 
gentleman is just giving up business, on pur- 
pose, I verily believe, to escape publishing my 
book. Several, however, would not absolutely 
decline the agency, on my advancing half the 
cost of an edition, and giving bonds for the 
remainder, besides a high percentage to them- 
selves, whether the book sells or not. Another 
advises a subscription.” 

“ The villain ! ” exclaimed I. 

“ A fact ! ” said Oberon. “ In short, of all 
the seventeen booksellers, only one has vouch- 
safed even to read my tales ; and he — a liter- 
242 


THE DEVIL IN MANUSCRIPT 


ary dabbler himself, I should judge — has the 
impertinence to criticise them, proposing what 
he calls vast improvements, and concluding, 
after a general sentence of condemnation, with 
the definitive assurance that he will not be con- 
cerned on any terms/’ 

“It might not be amiss to pull that fellow’s 
nose,” remarked I. 

“ If the whole c trade’ had one common nose, 
there would be some satisfaction in pulling it,” 
answered the author. “ But, there does seem 
to be one honest man among these seventeen 
unrighteous ones ; and he tells me fairly, that 
no American publisher will meddle with an 
American work, — seldom if by a known writer, 
and never if by a new one,. — unless- at the 
writer’s risk.” 

“ The paltry rogues ! ” cried I. “Will they 
live by literature, and yet risk nothing for its 
sake ? But, after all, you might publish on your 
own account.” 

“ And so I might,” replied Oberon. “ But 
the devil of the business is this. These people 
have put me so out of conceit with the tales, 
that I loathe the very thought of them, and 
actually experience a physical sickness of the 
stomach, whenever I glance at them on the 
table. I tell you there is a demon in them ! I 
anticipate a wild enjoyment in seeing them in 
the blaze ; such as I should feel in taking ven- 
243 


/ 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


geance on an enemy, or destroying something 
noxious.” 

I did not very strenuously oppose this de- 
termination, being privately of opinion, in spite 
of my partiality for the author, that his tales 
would make a more brilliant appearance in the 
fire than anywhere else. Before proceeding to 
execution, we broached the bottle of champagne, 
which Oberon had provided for keeping up his 
spirits in this doleful business. We swallowed 
each a tumblerful, in sparkling commotion ; it 
went bubbling down our throats, and brightened 
my eyes at once, but left my friend sad and 
heavy as before. He drew the tales towards 
him, with a mixture of natural affection and 
natural disgust, like a father taking a deformed 
infant into his arms, 

“ Pooh ! Pish ! Pshaw ! ” exclaimed he, hold- 
ing them at arm's length. <c It was Gray's idea 
of heaven, to lounge on a sofa and read new 
novels. Now, what more appropriate torture 
would Dante himself have contrived, for the 
sinner who perpetrates a bad book, than to be 
continually turning over the manuscript ? ” 

“ It would fail of effect,” said I, “ because a 
bad author is always his own great admirer.” 

“ I lack that one characteristic of my tribe, 
— the only desirable one,” observed Oberon. 
“ But how many recollections throng upon me, 
as I turn over these leaves ! This scene came 
244 


THE DEVIL IN MANUSCRIPT 

into my fancy as I walked along a hilly road, on 
a starlight October evening ; in the pure and 
bracing air, I became all soul, and felt as if I 
could climb the sky, and run a race along the 
Milky Way. Here is another tale, in which I 
wrapt myself during a dark and dreary night 
ride in the month of March, till the rattling of 
the wheels and the voices of my companions 
seemed like faint sounds of a dream, and my 
visions a bright reality. That scribbled page 
describes shadows which I summoned to my 
bedside at midnight: they would not depart 
when I bade them ; the gray dawn came, and 
found me wide awake and feverish, the victim 
of my own enchantments ! ” 

“ There must have been a sort of happiness 
in all this,” said I, smitten with a strange long- 
ing to make proof of it. 

“ There may be happiness in a fever fit,” 
replied the author. “ And then the various 
moods in which I wrote ! Sometimes my ideas 
were like precious stones under the earth, re- 
quiring toil to dig them up, and care to polish 
and brighten them ; but often a delicious stream 
of thought would gush out upon the page at 
once, like water sparkling up suddenly in the 
desert ; and when it had passed, I gnawed my 
pen hopelessly, or blundered on with cold and 
miserable toil, as if there were a wall of ice be- 
tween me and my subject.” 

245 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


“ Do you now perceive a corresponding dif- 
ference,” inquired I, “ between the passages 
which you wrote so coldly, and those fervid 
flashes of the mind ? ” 

“No,” said Oberon, tossing the manuscripts 
on the table. “ I find no traces of the golden 
pen with which I wrote in characters of fire. 
My treasure of fairy coin is changed to worth- 
less dross. My picture, painted in what seemed 
the loveliest hues, presents nothing but a faded 
and indistinguishable surface. I have been elo- 
quent and poetical and humorous in a dream, — 
and behold ! it is all nonsense, now that I am 
awake.” 

My friend now threw sticks of wood and dry 
chips upon the fire, and seeing it blaze like 
Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace, seized the cham- 
pagne bottle, and drank two or three brimming 
bumpers, successively. The heady liquor com- 
bined with his agitation to throw him into a 
species of rage. He laid violent hands on the 
tales. In one instant more, their faults and 
beauties would alike have vanished in a glowing 
purgatory. But, all at once, I remembered 
passages of high imagination, deep pathos, ori- 
ginal thoughts, and points of such varied ex- 
cellence, that the vastness of the sacrifice struck 
me most forcibly. I caught his arm. 

“ Surely, you do not mean to burn them ! ” 
I exclaimed. 


246 


THE DEVIL IN MANUSCRIPT 


c< Let me alone ! ” cried Oberon, his eyes 
flashing fire. “ I will burn them ! Not a 
scorched syllable shall escape ! Would you 
have me a damned author ? — To undergo 
sneers, taunts, abuse, and cold neglect, and faint 
praise, bestowed, for pity's sake, against the 
giver's conscience ! A hissing and a laughing- 
stock to my own traitorous thoughts ! An out- 
law from the protection of the grave, — one 
whose ashes every careless foot might spurn, 
unhonored in life, and remembered scornfully 
in death ! Am I to bear all this, when yonder 
fire will insure me from the whole? No! 
There go the tales ! May my hand wither 
when it would write another ! " 

The deed was done. He had thrown the 
manuscripts into the hottest of the fire, which 
at first seemed to shrink away, but soon curled 
around them, and made them a part of its own 
fervent brightness. Oberon stood gazing at 
the conflagration, and shortly began to solilo- 
quize, in the wildest strain, as if Fancy resisted 
and became riotous, at the moment when he 
would have compelled her to ascend that fu- 
neral pile. His words described objects which 
he appeared to discern in the fire, fed by his 
own precious thoughts ; perhaps the thousand 
visions which the writer's magic had incorpo- 
rated with these pages became visible to him in 
the dissolving heat, brightening forth ere they 
247 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


vanished forever ; while the smoke, the vivid 
sheets of flame, the ruddy and whitening coals, 
caught the aspect of a varied scenery. 

“ They blaze,” said he, “ as if I had steeped 
them in the intensest spirit of genius. There 
I see my lovers clasped in each other's arms. 
How pure the flame that bursts from their 
glowing hearts ! And yonder the features of 
a villain writhing in the fire that shall torment 
him to eternity. My holy men, my pious and 
angelic women, stand like martyrs amid the 
flames, their mild eyes lifted heavenward. Ring 
out the bells ! A city is on fire. See ! — de- 
struction roars through my dark forests, while 
the lakes boil up in steaming billows, and the 
mountains are volcanoes, and the sky kindles 
with a lurid brightness ! All elements are but 
one pervading flame ! Ha ! The fiend ! ” 

I was somewhat startled by this latter excla- 
mation. The tales were almost consumed, but 
just then threw forth a broad sheet of fire, which 
flickered as with laughter, making the whole 
room dance in its brightness, and then roared 
portentously up the chimney. 

“ You saw him ? You must have seen him ! ” 
cried Oberon. “How he glared at me and 
laughed, in that last sheet of flame, with just 
the features that I imagined for him! Well! 
The tales are gone.” 

The papers were indeed reduced to a heap 
248 


THE DEVIL IN MANUSCRIPT 

of black cinders, with a multitude of sparks 
hurrying confusedly among them, the traces of 
the pen being now represented by white lines, 
and the whole mass fluttering to and fro in the 
draughts of air. The destroyer knelt down to 
look at them. 

“ What is more potent than fire ! ” said he 
in his gloomiest tone. <c Even thought, invis- 
ible and incorporeal as it is, cannot escape it. 
In this little time, it has annihilated the crea- 
tions of long nights and days, which I could 
no more reproduce, in their first glow and 
freshness, than cause ashes and whitened bones 
to rise up and live. There, too, I sacrificed 
the unborn children of my mind. All that I 
had accomplished — all that I planned for fu- 
ture years — has perished by one common ruin, 
and left only this heap of embers ! The deed 
has been my fate. And what remains ? A 
weary and aimless life, — a long repentance of 
this hour, — and at last an obscure grave, where 
they will bury and forget me ! ” 

As the author concluded his dolorous moan, 
the extinguished embers arose and settled down 
and arose again, and finally flew up the chim- 
ney, like a demon with sable wings. Just as 
they disappeared, there was a loud and solitary 
cry in the street below us. “ Fire ! Fire ! ” 
Other voices caught up that terrible word, 
and it speedily became the shout of a multi- 
249 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

tude. Oberon started to his feet, in fresh ex- 
citement. 

“ A fire on such a night ! ” cried he. “ The 
wind blows a gale, and wherever it whirls the 
flames, the roofs will flash up like gunpowder. 
Every pump is frozen up, and boiling water 
would turn to ice the moment it was flung from 
the engine. In an hour, this wooden town 
will be one great bonfire ! What a glorious 
scene for my next — Pshaw ! ” 

The street was now all alive with footsteps, 
and the air full of voices. We heard one en- 
gine thundering round a corner, and another 
rattling from a distance over the pavements. 
The bells of three steeples clanged out at 
once, spreading the alarm to many a neighbor- 
ing town, and expressing hurry, confusion, and 
terror, so inimitably that I could almost distin- 
guish in their peal the burden of the universal 
cry, — “ Fire ! Fire ! Fire ! ” 

cc What is so eloquent as their iron tongues ! ” 
exclaimed Oberon. “ My heart leaps and trem- 
bles, but not with fear. And that other sound, 
too, — deep and awful as a mighty organ, — 
the roar and thunder of the multitude on the 
pavement below ! Come ! We are losing 
time. I will cry out in the loudest of the up- 
roar, and mingle my spirit with the wildest of 
the confusion, and be a bubble on the top of 
the ferment ! ” 


250 


THE DEVIL IN MANUSCRIPT 

From the first outcry, my foreboding had 
warned me of the true object and centre of 
alarm. There was nothing now but uproar, 
above, beneath, and around us ; footsteps stum- 
bling pell-mell up the public staircase, eager 
shouts and heavy thumps at the door, the whiz 
and dash of water from the engines, and the 
crash of furniture thrown upon the pavement. 
At once, the truth flashed upon my friend. His 
frenzy took the hue of joy, and, with a wild 
gesture of exultation, he leaped almost to the 
ceiling of the chamber. 

“ My tales ! ” cried Oberon. £C The chim- 
ney ! The roof! The Fiend has gone forth by 
night, and startled thousands in fear and wonder 
from their beds ! Here I stand, — a triumphant 
author ! Huzza ! Huzza ! My brain has set 
the town on fire ! Huzza ! ” 

251 


JOHN INGLEFIELD’S THANKS- 
GIVING 


O N the evening of Thanksgiving Day, 
John Inglefield, the blacksmith, sat in 
his elbow-chair, among those who had 
been keeping festival at his board. Being the 
central figure of the domestic circle, the fire 
threw its strongest light on his massive and 
sturdy frame, reddening his rough visage, so that 
it looked like the head of an iron statue, all 
aglow from his own forge, and with its features 
rudely fashioned on his own anvil. At John 
Inglefield’s right hand was an empty chair. The 
other places round the hearth were filled by the 
members of the family, who all sat quietly, 
while, with a semblance of fantastic merriment, 
their shadows danced on the wall behind them. 
One of the group was John Inglefield’s son, who 
had been bred at college, and was now a student 
of theology at Andover. There was also a 
daughter of sixteen, whom nobody could look 
at without thinking of a rosebud almost blos- 
somed. The only other person at the fireside 
was Robert Moore, formerly an apprentice of 
the blacksmith, but now his journeyman, and 
252 


JOHN INGLEFIELD’S THANKSGIVING 

who seemed more like an own son of John 
Inglefield than did the pale and slender stu- 
dent. 

Only these four had kept New England's 
festival beneath that roof. The vacant chair at 
John Inglefield’s right hand was in memory of 
his wife, whom death had snatched from him 
since the previous Thanksgiving. With a feel- 
ing that few would have looked for in his rough 
nature, the bereaved husband had himself set 
the chair in its place next his own ; and often 
did his eye glance thitherward, as if he deemed 
it possible that the cold grave might send back 
its tenant to the cheerful fireside, at least for 
that one evening. Thus did he cherish the 
grief that was dear to him. But there was an- 
other grief which he would fain have torn from 
his heart ; or, since that could never be, have 
buried it too deep for others to behold, or for 
his own remembrance. Within the past year 
another member of his household had gone 
from him, but not to the grave. Yet they kept 
no vacant chair for her. 

While John Inglefield and his family were 
sitting round the hearth with the shadows dan- 
cing behind them on the wall, the outer door 
was opened, and a light footstep came along the 
passage. The latch of the inner door was lifted 
by some familiar hand, and a young girl came 
in, wearing a cloak and hood, which she took 
253 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


off, and laid on the table beneath the looking- 
glass. Then, after gazing a moment at the fire- 
side circle, she approached, and took the seat at 
John Inglefield’s right hand, as if it had been 
reserved on purpose for her. 

a Here I am, at last, father/’ said she. “ You 
ate your Thanksgiving dinner without me, but 
I have come back to spend the evening with 
you.” 

Yes, it was Prudence Inglefield. She wore 
the same neat and maidenly attire which she had 
been accustomed to put on when the household 
work was over for the day, and her hair was 
parted from her brow, in the simple and modest 
fashion that became her best of all. If her 
cheek might otherwise have been pale, yet the 
glow of the fire suffused it with a healthful 
bloom. If she had spent the many months of 
her absence in guilt and infamy, yet they seemed 
to have left no traces on her gentle aspect. She 
could not have looked less altered, had she 
merely stepped away from her father’s fireside 
for half an hour, and returned while the blaze 
was quivering upwards from the same brands 
that were burning at her departure. And to 
John Inglefield she was the very image of his 
buried wife, such as he remembered her on the 
first Thanksgiving which they had passed under 
their own roof. Therefore, though naturally 
a stern and rugged man, he could not speak 
254 


JOHN INGLEFIELD’S THANKSGIVING 

unkindly to his sinful child, nor yet could he 
take her to his bosom. 

“You are welcome home. Prudence,” said 
he, glancing sideways at her, and his voice fal- 
tered. “ Your mother would have rejoiced to 
see you, but she has been gone from us these 
four months.” 

“ I know it, father, I know it,” replied Pru- 
dence quickly. “ And yet, when I first came 
in, my eyes were so dazzled by the firelight, that 
she seemed to be sitting in this very chair ! ” 

By this time the other members of the family 
had begun to recover from their surprise, and 
became sensible that it was no ghost from the 
grave, nor vision of their vivid recollections, but 
Prudence, her own self. Her brother was the 
next that greeted her. He advanced and held 
out his hand affectionately, as a brother should ; 
yet not entirely like a brother, for, with all his 
kindness, he was still a clergyman, and speaking 
to a child of sin. 

“ Sister Prudence,” said he earnestly, <c I re- 
joice that a merciful Providence hath turned 
your steps homeward, in time for me to bid you 
a last farewell. In a few weeks, sister, I am 
to sail as a missionary to the far islands of the 
Pacific. There is not one of these beloved 
faces that I shall ever hope to behold again on 
this earth. O, may I see all of them — yours 
and all — beyond the grave ! ” 

255 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


A shadow flitted across the girl’s counte- 
nance. 

“ The grave is very dark, brother,” answered 
she, withdrawing her hand somewhat hastily 
from his grasp. “ You must look your last at 
me by the light of this fire.” 

While this was passing, the twin girl — the 
rosebud that had grown on the same stem with 
the castaway — stood gazing at her sister, long- 
ing to fling herself upon her bosom, so that the 
tendrils of their hearts might intertwine again. 
At first she was restrained by mingled grief and 
shame, and by a dread that Prudence was too 
much changed to respond to her affection, or 
that her own purity would be felt as a reproach 
by the lost one. But, as she listened to the 
familiar voice, while the face grew more and 
more familiar, she forgot everything save that 
Prudence had come back. Springing forward, 
she would have clasped her in a close embrace. 
At that very instant, however, Prudence started 
from her chair, and held out both her hands, 
with a warning gesture. 

“ No, Mary, — no, my sister,” cried she, <c do 
not you touch me. Your bosom must not be 
pressed to mine ! ” 

Mary shuddered and stood still, for she felt 
that something darker than the grave was be- 
tween Prudence and herself, though they seemed 
so near each other in the light of their father’s 
256 


JOHN INGLEFIELD’S THANKSGIVING 

hearth, where they had grown up together. 
Meanwhile Prudence threw her eyes around 
the room, in search of one who had not yet bid- 
den her welcome. He had withdrawn from his 
seat by the fireside, and was standing near the 
door, with his face averted, so that his features 
could be discerned only by the flickering shadow 
of the profile upon the wall. But Prudence 
called to him, in a cheerful and kindly tone : — 
“ Come, Robert,” said she, “ won’t you shake 
hands with your old friend ? ” 

Robert Moore held back for a moment, but 
affection struggled powerfully, and overcame 
his pride and resentment ; he rushed towards 
Prudence, seized her hand, and pressed it to his 
bosom. 

“ There, there, Robert ! ” said she, smiling 
sadly, as she withdrew her hand, “ you must not 
give me too warm a welcome.” 

And now, having exchanged greetings with 
each member of the family, Prudence again 
seated herself in the chair at John InglefiekTs 
right hand. She was naturally a girl of quick 
and tender sensibilities, gladsome in her general 
mood, but with a bewitching pathos interfused 
among her merriest words and deeds. It was 
remarked of her, too, that she had a faculty, 
even from childhood, of throwing her own feel- 
ings, like a spell, over her companions. Such 
as she had been in her days of innocence, so did 
2 57 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


she appear this evening. Her friends, in the 
surprise and bewilderment of her return, almost 
forgot that she had ever left them, or that she 
had forfeited any of her claims to their affection. 
In the morning, perhaps, they might have 
looked at her with altered eyes, but by the 
Thanksgiving fireside they felt only that their 
own Prudence had come back to them, and 
were thankful. John Inglefield’s rough visage 
brightened with the glow of his heart, as it grew 
warm and merry within him ; once or twice, 
even, he laughed till the room rang again, yet 
seemed startled by the echo of his own mirth. 
The grave young minister became as frolic- 
some as a schoolboy. Mary, too, the rosebud, 
forgot that her twin blossom had ever been torn 
from the stem, and trampled in the dust. And 
as for Robert Moore, he gazed at Prudence 
with the bashful earnestness of love new-born, 
while she, with sweet maiden coquetry, half 
smiled upon and half discouraged him. 

In short, it was one of those intervals when 
sorrow vanishes in its own depth of shadow, 
and joy starts forth in transitory brightness. 
When the clock struck eight, Prudence poured 
out her father’s customary draught of herb-tea, 
which had been steeping by the fireside ever 
since twilight. 

“ God bless you, child!” said John Ingle- 
field, as he took the cup from her hand ; “ you 
258 


Into the outer darkness 













Q\\\I 


































































r -4 , * 

f • i tss^y 

\ •' IHJJb 

, i 

A 


» • * VVV.tUM 


1 1 v'>(j 

Jf. ■ -vi 


• *•«■?>> * •''Mil * 

'rj. 

5'- *«#& *$)&¥#£« 

[ I 1 - J* .*V* • r<wi J a 









JOHN INGLEFIELD’S THANKSGIVING 

have made your old father happy again. But 
we miss your mother sadly. Prudence, sadly. 
It seems as if she ought to be here now.” 

“ Now, father, or never,” replied Prudence. 

It was now the hour for domestic worship. 
But while the family were making preparations 
for this duty, they suddenly perceived that Pru- 
dence had put on her cloak and hood, and was 
lifting the latch of the door. 

“ Prudence, Prudence ! where are you go- 
ing ? ” cried they all, with one voice. 

As Prudence passed out of the door, she 
turned towards them, and flung back her hand 
with a gesture of farewell. But her face was so 
changed that they hardly recognized it. Sin 
and evil passions glowed through its comeliness, 
and wrought a horrible deformity ; a smile 
gleamed in her eyes, as of triumphant mockery, 
at their surprise and grief. 

“ Daughter,” cried John Inglefield, between 
wrath and sorrow, “ stay and be your father’s 
blessing, or take his curse with you ! ” 

For an instant Prudence lingered and looked 
back into the fire-lighted room, while her coun- 
tenance wore almost the expression as if she 
were struggling with a fiend, who had power to 
seize his victim even within the hallowed pre- 
cincts of her father’s hearth. The fiend pre- 
vailed ; and Prudence vanished into the outer 
darkness. When the family rushed to the door, 
259 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


they could see nothing, but heard the sound 
of wheels rattling over the frozen ground. 

That same night, among the painted beauties 
at the theatre of a neighboring city, there was 
one whose dissolute mirth seemed inconsistent 
with any sympathy for pure affections, and for 
the joys and griefs which are hallowed by them. 
Yet this was Prudence Inglefield. Her visit 
to the Thanksgiving fireside was the realization 
of one of those waking dreams in which the 
guilty soul will sometimes stray back to its 
innocence. But Sin, alas ! is careful of her 
bond-slaves ; they hear her voice, perhaps, at 
the holiest moment, and are constrained to go 
whither she summons them. The same dark 
power that drew Prudence Inglefield from her 
father’s hearth — the same in its nature, though 
heightened then to a dread necessity — would 
snatch a guilty soul from the gate of heaven, and 
make its sin and its punishment alike eternal. 

260 


OLD TICONDEROGA 


A PICTURE OF THE PAST 

[When this article was first printed in the American Monthly Maga- 
zine, it had the following introductory paragraphs : — 

“ In returning once to New England from a visit to Niagara, I found 
myself, one summer’s day, before noon, at Orwell, about forty miles 
from the southern extremity of Lake Champlain, which has here the as- 
pect of a river or a creek. We were on the Vermont shore, with a ferry, 
of less than a mile wide, between us and the town of Ti, in New York. 

“On the banks of the lake, within ten yards of the water, stood a 
pretty white tavern, with a piazza along its front. A wharf and one or 
two stores were close at hand, and appeared to have a good run of trade, 
foreign as well as domestic 5 the latter with Vermont farmers and the 
former with vessels plying between Whitehall and the British Dominions. 
Altogether, this was a pleasant and lively spot. I delighted in it, among 
other reasons, on account of the continual succession of travellers, who 
spent an idle quarter of an hour in waiting for the ferry boat 5 affording 
me just time enough to make their acquaintance, penetrate their myster- 
ies, and be rid of them, without the risk of tediousness on either side.”] 

T HE greatest attraction, in this vicinity, 
is the famous old fortress of Ticon- 
deroga, the remains of which are visi- 
ble from the piazza of the tavern, on a swell 
of land that shuts in the prospect of the lake. 
Those celebrated heights, Mount Defiance and 
Mount Independence, familiar to all Americans 
in history, stand too prominent not to be recog- 
nized, though neither of them precisely corre- 
sponds to the images excited by their names. 

261 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

In truth, the whole scene, except the interior 
of the fortress, disappointed me. Mount Defi- 
ance, which one pictures as a steep, lofty, and 
rugged hill, of most formidable aspect, frown- 
ing down with the grim visage of a precipice on 
old Ticonderoga, is merely a long and wooded 
ridge; and bore, at some former period, the 
gentle name of Sugar Hill. The brow is cer- 
tainly difficult to climb, and high enough to 
look into every corner of the fortress. St. 
Clair’s most probable reason, however, for neg- 
lecting to occupy it, was the deficiency of 
troops to man the works already constructed, 
rather than the supposed inaccessibility of 
Mount Defiance. It is singular that the French 
never fortified this height, standing, as it does, 
in the quarter whence they must have looked 
for the advance of a British army. 

In my first view of the ruins, I was favored 
with the scientific guidance of a young lieuten- 
ant of engineers, recently from West Point, 
where he had gained credit for great military 
genius. I saw nothing but confusion in what 
chiefly interested him ; straight lines and zig- 
zags, defence within defence, wall opposed to 
wall, and ditch intersecting ditch ; oblong squares 
of masonry below the surface of the earth, and 
huge mounds, or turf-covered hills of stone, 
above it. On one of these artificial hillocks, a 
pine-tree has rooted itself, and grown tall and 
262 


OLD TICONDEROGA 


strong, since the banner staff was levelled. But 
where my unmilitary glance could trace no reg- 
ularity, the young lieutenant was perfectly at 
home. He fathomed the meaning of every 
ditch, and formed an entire plan of the fortress 
from its half-obliterated lines. His description 
of Ticonderoga would be as accurate as a geo- 
metrical theorem, and as barren of the poetry 
that has clustered round its decay. I viewed 
Ticonderoga as a place of ancient strength, in 
ruins for half a century : where the flags of 
three nations had successively waved, and none 
waved now ; where armies had struggled, so 
long ago that the bones of the slain were moul- 
dered ; where Peace had found a heritage in the 
forsaken haunts of War. Now the young West 
Pointer, with his lectures on ravelins, counter- 
scarps, angles, and covered ways, made it an 
affair of brick and mortar and hewn stone, ar- 
ranged on certain regular principles, having a 
good deal to do with mathematics, but nothing 
at all with poetry. 

I should have been glad of a hoary veteran 
to totter by my side, and tell me, perhaps, of 
the French garrisons and their Indian allies, — 
of Abercrombie, Lord Howe, and Amherst, — 
of Ethan Allen's triumph and St. Clair's sur- 
render. The old soldier and the old fortress 
would be emblems of each other. His remi- 
niscences, though vivid as the image of Ticon- 
263 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


deroga in the lake, would harmonize with the 
gray influence of the scene. A survivor of the 
long-disbanded garrisons, though but a private 
soldier, might have mustered his dead chiefs 
and comrades, — some from Westminster Ab- 
bey, and English churchyards, and battlefields 
in Europe, — others from their graves here in 
America, — others, not a few, who lie sleeping 
round the fortress ; he might have mustered 
them all, and bid them march through the 
ruined gateway, turning their old historic faces 
on me, as they passed. Next to such a com- 
panion, the best is one’s own fancy. 

At another visit I was alone, and, after ram- 
bling all over the ramparts, sat down to rest 
myself in one of the roofless barracks. These 
are old French structures, and appear to have 
occupied three sides of a large area, now over- 
grown with grass, nettles, and thistles. The 
one in which I sat was long and narrow, as 
all the rest had been, with peaked gables. The 
exterior walls were nearly entire, constructed 
of gray, flat, unpicked stones, the aged strength 
of which promised long to resist the elements, 
if no other violence should precipitate their fall. 
The roof, floors, partitions, and the rest of the 
wood-work had probably been burnt, except 
some bars of staunch old oak, which were black- 
ened with fire, but still remained embedded into 
the window-sills and over the doors. There 
264 


OLD TICONDEROGA 


were a few particles of plastering near the chim- 
ney, scratched with rude figures, perhaps by a 
soldier's hand. A most luxuriant crop of weeds 
had sprung up within the edifice, and hid 
the scattered fragments of the wall. Grass and 
weeds grew in the windows, and in all the crev- 
ices of the stone, climbing, step by step, till a 
tuft of yellow flowers was waving on the highest 
peak of the gable. Some spicy herb diffused 
pleasant odor through the ruin. A verdant heap 
of vegetation had covered the hearth of the 
second floor, clustering on the very spot where 
the huge logs had mouldered to glowing coals, 
and flourished beneath the broad flue, which 
had so often puffed the smoke over a circle of 
French or English soldiers. I felt that there 
was no other token of decay so impressive as 
that bed of weeds in the place of the backlog. 

Here I sat, with those roofless walls about 
me, the clear sky over my head, and the after- 
noon sunshine falling gently bright through 
the window-frames and doorway. I heard the 
tinkling of a cow-bell, the twittering of birds, 
and the pleasant hum of insects. Once a gay 
butterfly, with four gold-speckled wings, came 
and fluttered about my head, then flew up and 
lighted on the highest tuft of yellow flowers, 
and at last took wing across the lake. Next, 
a bee buzzed through the sunshine, and found 
much sweetness among the weeds. After watch- 
265 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


mg him till he went off to his distant hive, I 
closed my eyes on Ticonderoga in ruins, and 
cast a dream-like glance over pictures of the 
past, and scenes of which this spot had been 
the theatre. 

At first, my fancy saw only the stern hills, 
lonely lakes, and venerable woods. Not a tree, 
since their seeds were first scattered over the 
infant soil, had felt the axe, but had grown up 
and flourished through its long generation, had 
fallen beneath the weight of years, been buried 
in green moss, and nourished the roots of others 
as gigantic. Hark ! A light paddle dips into 
the lake, a birch canoe glides round the point, 
and an Indian chief has passed, painted and fea- 
ther-crested, armed with a bow of hickory, a 
stone tomahawk, and flint-headed arrows. But 
the ripple had hardly vanished from the water, 
when a white flag caught the breeze, over a cas- 
tle in the wilderness, with frowning ramparts 
and a hundred cannon. There stood a French 
chevalier, commandant of* the fortress, paying 
court to a copper-colored lady, the princess of 
the land, and winning her wild love by the arts 
which had been successful with Parisian dames. 
A war party of French and Indians were issu- 
ing from the gate to lay waste some village of 
New England. Near the fortress there was a 
group of dancers. The merry soldiers footing 
it with the swart savage maids ; deeper in the 
266 


OLD TICONDEROGA 


wood, some red men were growing frantic 
around a keg of the fire-water ; and elsewhere 
a Jesuit preached the faith of high cathedrals 
beneath a canopy of forest boughs, and distrib- 
uted crucifixes to be worn beside English scalps. 

I tried to make a series of pictures from the 
Old French War, when fleets were on the lake 
and armies in the woods, and especially of 
Abercrombie’s disastrous repulse, where thou- 
sands of lives were utterly thrown away; but, 
being at a loss how to order the battle, I chose 
an evening scene in the barracks, after the for- 
tress had surrendered to Sir Jeffrey Amherst. 
What an immense fire blazes on that hearth, 
gleaming on swords, bayonets, and musket bar- 
rels, and blending with the hue of the scarlet 
coats till the whole barrack-room is quivering 
with ruddy light ! One soldier has thrown 
himself down to rest, after a deer-hunt, or per- 
haps a long run through the woods with Indians 
on his trail. Two stand up to wrestle, and are 
on the point of coming to blows. A fifer plays 
a shrill accompaniment to a drummer’s song, — 
a strain of light love and bloody war, with a cho- 
rus thundered forth by twenty voices. Mean- 
time, a veteran in the corner is prosing about 
Dettingen and Fontenoy, and relates camp-tra- 
ditions of Marlborough’s battles, till his pipe, 
having been roguishly charged with gunpowder, 
makes a terrible explosion under his nose. And 
267 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


now they all vanish in a puff of smoke from the 
chimney. 

I merely glanced at the ensuing twenty years, 
which glided peacefully over the frontier for- 
tress, till Ethan Allen's shout was heard, sum- 
moning it to surrender “ in the name of the great 
Jehovah and of the Continental Congress.” 
Strange allies ! thought the British captain. 
Next came the hurried muster of the soldiers 
of liberty, when the cannon of Burgoyne, 
pointing down upon their stronghold from the 
brow of Mount Defiance, announced a new 
conqueror of Ticonderoga. No virgin fortress, 
this ! Forth rushed the motley throng from the 
barracks, one man wearing the blue and buff 
of the Union, another the red coat of Britain, 
a third a dragoon’s jacket, and a fourth a cot- 
ton frock ; here was a pair of leather breeches, 
and striped trousers there ; a grenadier’s cap on 
one head, and a broad-brimmed hat, with a tall 
feather, on the next ; this fellow shouldering a 
king’s arm, that might throw a bullet to Crown 
Point, and his comrade a long fowling-piece, ad- 
mirable to shoot ducks on the lake. In the 
midst of the bustle, when the fortress was all 
alive with its last warlike scene, the ringing of a 
bell on the lake made me suddenly unclose 
my eyes, and behold only the gray and weed- 
grown ruins. They were as peaceful in the 
sun as a warrior’s grave. 

268 


OLD TICONDEROGA 

Hastening to the rampart, I perceived that 
the signal had been given by the steamboat 
Franklin, which landed a passenger from White- 
hall at the tavern, and resumed its progress 
northward, to reach Canada the next morning. 
A sloop was pursuing the same track ; a little 
skiff had just crossed the ferry ; while a scow, 
laden with lumber, spread its huge square sail, 
and went up the lake. The whole country was 
a cultivated farm. Within musket-shot of the 
ramparts lay the neat villa of Mr. Pell, who, 
since the Revolution, has become proprietor of 
a spot for which France, England, and America 
have so often struggled. How forcibly the 
lapse of time and change of circumstances came 
home to my apprehension ! Banner would 
never wave again, nor cannon roar, nor blood 
be shed, nor trumpet stir up a soldier’s heart, 
in this old fort of Ticonderoga. Tall trees 
have grown upon its ramparts, since the last 
garrison marched out, to return no more, or 
only at some dreamer’s summons, gliding from 
the twilight past to vanish among realities. 

269 


THE WIVES OF THE DEAD 


T HE following story, the simple and 
domestic incidents of which may be 
deemed scarcely worth relating, after 
such a lapse of time, awakened some degree of 
interest, a hundred years ago, in a principal sea- 
port of the Bay Province. The rainy twilight 
of an autumn day, — a parlor on the second 
floor of a small house, plainly furnished, as 
beseemed the middling circumstances of its 
inhabitants, yet decorated with little curiosities 
from beyond the sea, and a few delicate speci- 
mens of Indian manufacture, — these are the 
only particulars to be premised in regard to 
scene and season. Two young and comely 
women sat together by the fireside, nursing their 
mutual and peculiar sorrows. They were the 
recent brides of two brothers, a sailor and a 
landsman, and two successive days had brought 
tidings of the death of each, by the chances of 
Canadian warfare and the tempestuous Atlantic. 
The universal sympathy excited by this bereave- 
ment drew numerous condoling guests to the 
habitation of the widowed sisters. Several, 
among whom was the minister, had remained 
till the verge of evening, when, one by one, 
270 


THE WIVES OF THE DEAD 


whispering many comfortable passages of Scrip- 
ture that were answered by more abundant tears, 
they took their leave, and departed to their own 
happier homes. The mourners, though not 
insensible to the kindness of their friends, had 
yearned to be left alone. United, as they had 
been, by the relationship of the living, and now 
more closely so by that of the dead, each felt as 
if whatever consolation her grief admitted were 
to be found in the bosom of the other. They 
joined their hearts, and wept together silently. 
But after an hour of such indulgence, one of 
the sisters, all of whose emotions were influ- 
enced by her mild, quiet, yet not feeble charac- 
ter, began to recollect the precepts of resigna- 
tion and endurance which piety had taught her, 
when she did not think to need them. Her 
misfortune, besides, as earliest known, should 
earliest cease to interfere with her regular course 
of duties ; accordingly, having placed the table 
before the fire, and arranged a frugal meal, she 
took the hand of her companion. 

“ Come, dearest sister ; you have eaten not 
a morsel to-day,” she said. “ Arise, I pray 
you, and let us ask a blessing on that which is 
provided for us.” 

Her sister-in-law was of a lively and irritable 
temperament, and the first pangs of her sorrow 
had been expressed by shrieks and passionate 
lamentation. She now shrunk from Mary’s 
271 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


words, like a wounded sufferer from a hand that 
revives the throb. 

“ There is no blessing left for me, neither 
will I ask it ! ” cried Margaret, with a fresh 
burst of tears. “ Would it were His will that 
I might never taste food more ! ” 

Yet she trembled at these rebellious expres- 
sions, almost as soon as they were uttered, and, 
by degrees, Mary succeeded in bringing her 
sister’s mind nearer to the situation of her own. 
Time went on, and their usual hour of repose 
arrived. The brothers and their brides, enter- 
ing the married state with no more than the 
slender means which then sanctioned such a 
step, had confederated themselves in one house- 
hold, with equal rights to the parlor, and claim- 
ing exclusive privileges in two sleeping-rooms 
contiguous to it. Thither the widowed ones 
retired, after heaping ashes upon the dying 
embers of their fire, and placing a lighted lamp 
upon the hearth. The doors of both chambers 
were left open, so that a part of the interior of 
each, and the beds, with their unclosed curtains, 
were reciprocally visible. Sleep did not steal 
upon the sisters at one and the same time. 
Mary experienced the effect often consequent 
upon grief quietly borne, and soon sunk into 
temporary forgetfulness ; while Margaret be- 
came more disturbed and feverish, in proportion 
as the night advanced with its deepest and still- 
272 


THE WIVES OF THE DEAD 


est hours. She lay listening to the drops of 
rain that came down in monotonous succession, 
unswayed by a breath of wind ; and a nervous 
impulse continually caused her to lift her head 
from the pillow, and gaze into Mary’s chamber 
and the intermediate apartment. The cold light 
of the lamp threw the shadows of the furniture 
up against the wall, stamping them immovably 
there, except when they were shaken by a sud- 
den flicker of the flame. Two vacant armchairs 
were in their old positions on opposite sides of 
the hearth, where the brothers had been wont 
to sit in young and laughing dignity, as heads 
of families ; two humbler seats were near them, 
the true thrones of that little empire, where 
Mary and herself had exercised in love a power 
that love had won. The cheerful radiance of 
the fire had shone upon the happy circle, and 
the dead glimmer of the lamp might have 
befitted their reunion now. While Margaret 
groaned in bitterness, she heard a knock at the 
street door. 

cc How would my heart have leapt at that 
sound but yesterday ! ” thought she, remember- 
ing the anxiety with which she had long awaited 
tidings from her husband. cc I care not for it 
now ; let them begone, for I will not arise. ,, 

But even while a sort of childish fretfulness 
made her thus resolve, she was breathing hur- 
riedly, and straining her ears to catch a repeti- 
273 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


tion of the summons. It is difficult to be con- 
vinced of the death of one whom we have deemed 
another self. The knocking was now renewed 
in slow and regular strokes, apparently given 
with the soft end of a doubled fist, and was 
accompanied by words, faintly heard through 
several thicknesses of wall. Margaret looked 
to her sister’s chamber, and beheld her still 
lying in the depths of sleep. She arose, placed 
her foot upon the floor, and slightly arrayed 
herself, trembling between fear and eagerness 
as she did so. 

“ Heaven help me ! ” sighed she. Cf I have 
nothing left to fear, and methinks I am ten 
times more a coward than ever.” 

Seizing the lamp from the hearth, she has- 
tened to the window that overlooked the street 
door. It was a lattice, turning upon hinges ; 
and having- thrown it back, she stretched her 
head a little way into the moist atmosphere. 
A lantern was reddening the front of the house, 
and melting its light in the neighboring pud- 
dles, while a deluge of darkness overwhelmed 
every other object. As the window grated on 
its hinges, a man in a broad-brimmed hat and 
blanket coat stepped from under the shelter of 
the projecting story, and looked upward to dis- 
cover whom his application had aroused. Mar- 
garet knew him as a friendly innkeeper of the 
town. 


274 


THE WIVES OF THE DEAD 


<c What would you have, Goodman Parker? ” 
cried the widow. 

“ Lackaday, is it you, Mistress Margaret ? ” 
replied the innkeeper. “ I was afraid it might 
be your sister Mary ; for I hate to see a young 
woman in trouble, when I have n’t a word of 
comfort to whisper her.” 

“For Heaven’s sake, what news do you 
bring ? ” screamed Margaret. 

“ Why, there has been an express through 
the town within this half-hour,” said Goodman 
Parker, “ travelling from the eastern jurisdiction 
with letters from the governor and council. He 
tarried at my house to refresh himself with a 
drop and a morsel, and I asked him what tid- 
ings on the frontiers. He tells me we had the 
better in the skirmish you wot of, and that thir- 
teen men reported slain are well and sound, and 
your husband among them. Besides, he is 
appointed of the escort to bring the captivated 
Frenchers and Indians home to the province 
jail. I judged you would n’t mind being broke 
of your rest, and so I stepped over to tell you. 
Good-night.” 

So saying, the honest man departed ; and 
his lantern gleamed along the street, bringing 
to view indistinct shapes of things, and the 
fragments of a world, like order glimmering 
through chaos, or memory roaming over the 
past. But Margaret stayed not to watch these 
275 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


picturesque effects. Joy flashed into her heart, 
and lighted it up at once ; and breathless, and 
with winged steps, she flew to the bedside of 
her sister. She paused, however, at the door 
of the chamber, while a thought of pain broke 
in upon her. 

“ Poor Mary ! ” said she to herself. cc Shall 
I waken her, to feel her sorrow sharpened by 
my happiness ? No ; I will keep it within my 
own bosom till the morrow.” 

She approached the bed, to discover if Mary's 
sleep were peaceful. Her face was turned partly 
inward to the pillow, and had been hidden there 
to weep ; but a look of motionless contentment 
was now visible upon it, as if her heart, like a 
deep lake, had grown calm because its dead had 
sunk down so far within. Happy is it, and 
strange, that the lighter sorrows are those from 
which dreams are chiefly fabricated. Margaret 
shrunk from disturbing her sister-in-law, and 
felt as if her own better fortune had rendered 
her involuntarily unfaithful, and as if altered 
and diminished affection must be the conse- 
quence of the disclosure she had to make. 
With a sudden step she turned away. But joy 
could not long be repressed, even by circum- 
stances that would have excited heavy grief at 
another moment. Her mind was thronged with 
delightful thoughts, till sleep stole on, and trans- 
formed them to visions, more delightful and 
276 


THE WIVES OF THE DEAD 

more wild, like the breath of winter (but what 
a cold comparison !) working fantastic tracery 
upon a window. 

When the night was far advanced, Mary 
awoke with a sudden start. A vivid dream had 
latterly involved her in its unreal life, of which, 
however, she could only remember that it had 
been broken in upon at the most interesting 
point. For a little time, slumber hung about 
her like a morning mist, hindering her from 
perceiving the distinct outline of her situation. 
She listened with imperfect consciousness to two 
or three volleys of a rapid and eager knocking ; 
and first she deemed the noise a matter of course, 
like the breath she drew ; next, it appeared a 
thing in which she had no concern ; and lastly, 
she became aware that it was a summons neces- 
sary to be obeyed. At the same moment, the 
pang of recollection darted into her mind ; the 
pall of sleep was thrown back from the face of 
grief ; the dim light of the chamber, and the 
objects therein revealed, had retained all her sus- 
pended ideas, and restored them as soon as she 
unclosed her eyes. Again there was a quick 
peal upon the street door. Fearing that her 
sister would also be disturbed, Mary wrapped 
herself in a cloak and hood, took the lamp from 
the hearth, and hastened to the window. By 
some accident, it had been left unhasped, and 
yielded easily to her hand. 

277 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


“ Who ’s there ? ” asked Mary, trembling as 
she looked forth. 

The storm was over, and the moon was up ; 
it shone upon broken clouds above, and below 
upon houses black with moisture, and upon 
little lakes of the fallen rain, curling into silver 
beneath the quick enchantment of a breeze. A 
young man in a sailor’s dress, wet as if he had 
come out of the depths of the sea, stood alone 
under the window. Mary recognized him as 
one whose livelihood was gained by short 
voyages along the coast ; nor did she forget 
that, previous to her marriage, he had been an 
unsuccessful wooer of her own. 

“ What do you seek here, Stephen ? ” said 
she. 

“ Cheer up, Mary, for I seek to comfort you,” 
answered the rejected lover. “ You must know 
I got home not ten minutes ago, and the first 
thing my good mother told me was the news 
about your husband. So, without saying a word 
to the old woman, I clapped on my hat, and ran 
out of the house. I could n’t have slept a wink 
before speaking to you, Mary, for the sake of 
old times.” 

“ Stephen, I thought better of you ! ” ex- 
claimed the widow, with gushing tears and pre- 
paring to close the lattice ; for she was no whit 
inclined to imitate the first wife of Zadig. 

“ But stop, and hear my story out,” cried 
278 


THE WIVES OF THE DEAD 


the young sailor. “ I tell you we spoke a brig 
yesterday afternoon, bound in from Old Eng- 
land. And whom do you think I saw standing 
on deck, well and hearty, only a bit thinner 
than he was five months ago ? ” 

Mary leaned from the window, but could not 
speak. 

“ Why, it was your husband himself,” con- 
tinued the generous seaman. a He and three 
others saved themselves on a spar, when the 
Blessing turned bottom upwards. The brig will 
beat into the bay by daylight, with this wind, 
and you ’ll see him here to-morrow. There ’s 
the comfort I bring you, Mary, and so good- 
night.” 

He hurried away, while Mary watched him 
with a doubt of waking reality, that seemed 
stronger or weaker as he alternately entered the 
shade of the houses, or emerged into the broad 
streaks of moonlight. Gradually, however, a 
blessed flood of conviction swelled into her 
heart, in strength enough to overwhelm her, 
had its increase been more abrupt. Her first 
impulse was to rouse her sister-in-law, and com- 
municate the new-born gladness. She opened 
the chamber door, which had been closed in the 
course of the night, though not latched, ad- 
vanced to the bedside, and was about to lay her 
hand upon the slumberer’s shoulder. But then 
she remembered that Margaret would awake to 
279 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

thoughts of death and woe, rendered not the less 
bitter by their contrast with her own felicity. 
She suffered the rays of the lamp to fall upon 
the unconscious form of the bereaved one. 
Margaret lay in unquiet sleep, and the drapery 
was displaced around her ; her young cheek was 
rosy tinted, and her lips half opened in a vivid 
smile ; an expression of joy, debarred its pas- 
sage by her sealed eyelids, struggled forth like 
incense from the whole countenance. 

“ My poor sister ! ” you will waken too soon 
from that happy dream,” thought Mary. 

Before retiring, she set down the lamp, and 
endeavored to arrange the bedclothes so that 
the chill air might not do harm to the feverish 
slumberer. But her hand trembled against 
Margaret's neck, a tear also fell upon her cheek, 
and she suddenly awoke. 

280 


LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY 


D AFFYDOWNDILLY was so called 
because in his nature he resembled a 
flower, and loved to do only what was 
beautiful and agreeable, and took no delight in 
labor of any kind. But while Daffy do wndilly 
was yet a little boy, his mother sent him away 
from his pleasant home, and put him under the 
care of a very strict schoolmaster, who went by 
the name of Mr. Toil. Those who knew him 
best affirmed that this Mr. Toil was a very 
worthy character ; and that he had done more 
good, both to children and grown people, than 
anybody else in the world. Certainly he had 
lived long enough to do a great deal of good ; 
for, if all stories be true, he had dwelt upon 
earth ever since Adam was driven from the 
garden of Eden. 

Nevertheless, Mr. Toil had a severe and ugly 
countenance, especially for such little boys or 
big men as were inclined to be idle ; his voice, 
too, was harsh ; and all his ways and customs 
seemed very disagreeable to our friend Daffy- 
downdilly. The whole day long, this terrible 
old schoolmaster sat at his desk overlooking the 
scholars, or stalked about the school-room with 
281 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


a certain awful birch rod in his hand. Now 
came a rap over the shoulders of a boy whom 
Mr. Toil had caught at play ; now he punished 
a whole class who were behindhand with their 
lessons ; and, in short, unless a lad chose to 
attend quietly and constantly to his book, he 
had no chance of enjoying a quiet moment in 
the school-room of Mr. Toil. 

“ This will never do for me,” thought Daffy- 
downdilly. 

Now, the whole of Daffydowndilly’s life had 
hitherto been passed with his dear mother, who 
had a much sweeter face than old Mr. Toil, and 
who had always been very indulgent to her lit- 
tle boy. No wonder, therefore, that poor Daf- 
fydowndilly found it a woeful change, to be sent 
away from the good lady’s side, and put under 
the care of this ugly-visaged schoolmaster, who 
never gave him any apples or cakes, and seemed 
to think that little boys* were created only to 
get lessons. 

“ I can’t bear it any longer,” said Daffydown- 
dilly to himself, when he had been at school 
about a week. “ I ’ll run away, and try to find 
my dear mother ; and, at any rate, I shall never 
find anybody half so disagreeable as this old 
Mr. Toil ! ” 

So, the very next morning, off started poor 
Daffydowndilly, and began his rambles about 
the world, with only some bread and cheese for 
282 


LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY 


his breakfast, and very little pocket money to 
pay his expenses. But he had gone only a short 
distance when he overtook a man of grave and 
sedate appearance, who was trudging at a moder- 
ate pace along the road. 

“ Good-morning, my fine lad,” said the stran- 
ger ; and his voice seemed hard and severe, but 
yet had a sort of kindness in it ; <c whence do 
you come so early, and whither are you going?” 

Little Daffy do wndilly was a boy of very in- 
genuous disposition, and had never been known 
to tell a lie in all his life. Nor did he tell 
one now. He hesitated a moment or two, but 
finally confessed that he had run away from 
school, on account of his great dislike to Mr. 
Toil; and that he was resolved to find some 
place in the world where he should never see 
or hear of the old schoolmaster again. 

“ O, very well, my little friend ! ” answered 
the stranger. “ Then we will go together ; for 
I, likewise, have had a good deal to do with 
Mr. Toil, and should be glad to find some place 
where he was never heard of.” 

Our friend Daffydowndilly would have been 
better pleased with a companion of his own age, 
with whom he might have gathered flowers along 
the roadside, or have chased butterflies, or have 
done many other things to make the journey 
pleasant. But he had wisdom enough to under- 
stand that he should get along through the 
283 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


world much easier by having a man of experi- 
ence to show him the way. So he accepted the 
stranger’s proposal, and they walked on very 
sociably together. 

They had not gone far, when the road passed 
by a field where some haymakers were at work, 
mowing down the tall grass, and spreading it 
out in the sun to dry. Daffy do wndilly was 
delighted with the sweet smell of the new-mown 
grass, and thought how much pleasanter it must 
be to make hay in the sunshine, under the blue 
sky, and with the birds singing sweetly in the 
neighboring trees and bushes, than to be shut 
up in a dismal school-room, learning lessons all 
day long, and continually scolded by old Mr. 
Toil. But, in the midst of these thoughts, while 
he was stopping to peep over the stone wall, he 
started back and caught hold of his companion’s 
hand. 

“ Quick, quick ! ” cried he. “ Let us run 
away, or he will catch us ! ” 

cc Who will catch us ? ” asked the stranger. 

<c Mr. Toil, the old schoolmaster ! ” answered 
Daffydowndilly. “ Don’t you see him amongst 
the haymakers ? ” 

And Daffydowndilly pointed to an elderly 
man, who seemed to be the owner of the field, 
and the employer of the men at work there. He 
had stripped off his coat and waistcoat, and was 
busily at work in his shirtsleeves. The drops 
284 


LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY 


of sweat stood upon his brow ; but he gave him- 
self not a moment’s rest, and kept crying out 
to the haymakers to make hay while the sun 
shone. Now, strange to say, the figure and fea- 
tures of this old farmer were precisely the same 
as those of old Mr. Toil, who, at that very 
moment, must have been just entering his 
school-room. 

“ Don’t be afraid,” said the stranger. “ This 
is not Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster, but a brother 
of his, who was bred a farmer ; and people say 
he is the most disagreeable man of the two. 
However, he won’t trouble you, unless you 
become a laborer on the farm.” 

Little Daffydowndilly believed what his com- 
panion said, but was very glad, nevertheless, 
when they were out of sight of the old farmer, 
who bore such a singular resemblance to Mr. 
Toil. The two travellers had gone but little 
farther, when they came to a spot where some 
carpenters were erecting a house. Daffydown- 
dilly begged his companion to stop a moment ; 
for it was a very pretty sight to see how neatly 
the carpenters did their work, with their broad- 
axes, and saws, and planes, and hammers, shap- 
ing out the doors, and putting in the window 
sashes, and nailing on the clapboards ; and he 
could not help thinking that he should like to 
take a broad-axe, a saw, a plane, and a ham- 
mer, and build a little house for himself. And 
285 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


then, when he should have a house of his own, 
old Mr. Toil would never dare to molest him. 

But, just while he was delighting himself 
with this idea, little Daffydowndilly beheld 
something that made him catch hold of his 
companion's hand, all in a fright. 

<c Make haste. Quick, quick ! ” cried he. 
“ There he is again ! ” 

“ Who ? ” asked the stranger very quietly. 

“ Old Mr. Toil," said Daffydowndilly, trem- 
bling. “ There ! he that is overseeing the car- 
penters. 'T is my old schoolmaster, as sure as 
I 'm alive ! ” 

The stranger cast his eyes where Daffydown- 
dilly pointed his finger ; and he saw an elderly 
man, with a carpenter's rule and compasses in 
his hand. This person went to and fro about 
the unfinished house, measuring pieces of tim- 
ber, and marking out the work that was to be 
done, and continually exhorting the other car- 
penters to be diligent. And wherever he turned 
his hard and wrinkled visage, the men seemed 
to feel that they had a taskmaster over them, 
and sawed, and hammered, and planed, as if 
for dear life. 

“ O no ! this is not Mr. Toil, the school- 
master," said the stranger. <c It is another 
brother of his, who follows the trade of car- 
penter.” 

“ I am very glad to hear it," quoth Daffy- 
286 


LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY 


downdilly ; <c but if you please, sir, I should 
like to get out of his way as soon as possible.” 

Then they went on a little farther, and soon 
heard the sound of a drum and fife. DafFydown- 
dilly pricked up his ears at this, and besought 
his companion to hurry forward, that they might 
not miss seeing the soldiers. Accordingly, they 
made what haste they could, and soon met a 
company of soldiers, gayly dressed, with beau- 
tiful feathers in their caps, and bright muskets 
on their shoulders. In front marched two 
drummers and two fifers, beating on their drums 
and playing on their fifes with might and main, 
and making such lively music that little DafFy- 
downdilly would gladly have followed them to 
the end of the world. And if he was only a 
soldier, then, he said to himself, old Mr. Toil 
would never venture to look him in the face. 

“ Quick step ! Forward march ! ” shouted 
a gruff voice. 

Little Daffydowndilly started, in great dis- 
may ; for this voice which had spoken to the 
soldiers sounded precisely the same as that 
which he had heard every day in Mr. Toil's 
school-room, out of Mr. Toil's own mouth. 
And, turning his eyes to the captain of the 
company, what should he see but the very im- 
age of old Mr. Toil himself, with a smart cap 
and feather on his head, a pair of gold epaulets 
on his shoulders, a laced coat on his back, a 
287 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


purple sash round his waist, and a long sword, 
instead of a birch rod, in his hand. And though 
he held his head so high, and strutted like a 
turkey-cock, still he looked quite as ugly and 
disagreeable as when he was hearing lessons in 
the school-room. 

“ This is certainly old Mr. Toil,” said Daf- 
fydowndilly in a trembling voice. “ Let us 
run away, for fear he should make us enlist in 
his company ! ” 

“ You are mistaken again, my little friend,” 
replied the stranger very composedly. “ This 
is not Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster, but a brother 
of his, who has served in the army all his life. 
People say he ’s a terribly severe fellow ; but 
you and I need not be afraid of him.” 

“Well, well,” said little DafFydowndilly ; 
“ but, if you please, sir, I don't want to see the 
soldiers any more.” 

So the child and the stranger resumed their 
journey ; and, by and by, they came to a house 
by the roadside, where a number of people 
were making merry. Young men and rosy- 
cheeked girls, with smiles on their faces, were 
dancing to the sound of a fiddle. It was the 
pleasantest sight that DafFydowndilly had yet 
met with, and it comforted him for all his dis- 
appointments. 

“ O, let us stop here,” cried he to his com- 
panion ; “ for Mr. Toil will never dare to show 
288 


LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY 


his face where there is a fiddler, and where peo- 
ple are dancing and making merry. We shall 
be quite safe here ! ” 

But these last words died away upon Daffy- 
downdilly’s tongue ; for, happening to cast his 
eyes on the fiddler, whom should he behold 
again but the likeness of Mr. Toil, holding a 
fiddle-bow instead of a birch rod, and flourish- 
ing it with as much ease and dexterity as if he 
had been a fiddler all his life ! He had some- 
what the air of a Frenchman, but still looked 
exactly like the old schoolmaster ; and DafFy- 
downdilly even fancied that he nodded and 
winked at him, and made signs for him to join 
in the dance. 

“ O dear me ! ” whispered he, turning pale. 
“ It seems as if there was nobody but Mr. Toil 
in the world. Who could have thought of his 
playing on a fiddle ! ” 

“This is not your old schoolmaster,” ob- 
served the stranger, “ but another brother of 
his, who was bred in France, where he learned 
the profession of a fiddler. He is ashamed of 
his family, and generally calls himself Monsieur 
le Plaisir ; but his real name is Toil, and those 
who have known him best think him still more 
disagreeable than his brothers.” 

“ Pray let us go a little farther,” said Daffy- 
downdilly. “ I don’t like the looks of this 
fiddler at all.” 


289 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


Well, thus the stranger and little Daffydown- 
dilly went wandering along the highway, and 
in shady lanes, and through pleasant villages ; 
and whithersoever they went, behold ! there 
was the image of old Mr. Toil. He stood like 
a scarecrow in the cornfields. If they entered 
a house, he sat in the parlor ; if they peeped 
into the kitchen, he was there. He made him- 
self at home in every cottage, and stole, under 
one disguise or another, into the most splendid 
mansions. Everywhere there was sure to be 
somebody wearing the likeness of Mr. Toil, 
and who, as the stranger affirmed, was one of 
the old schoolmaster’s innumerable brethren. 

Little Daffydowndilly was almost tired to 
death, when he perceived some people reclin- 
ing lazily in a shady place, by the side of the 
road. The poor child entreated his companion 
that they might sit down there, and take some 
repose. 

“ Old Mr. Toil will never come here,” said 
he ; “ for he hates to see people taking their 
ease.” 

But, even while he spoke, Daffydowndilly’s 
eyes fell upon a person who seemed the laziest, 
and heaviest, and most torpid of all those lazy 
and heavy and torpid people who had lain down 
to sleep in the shade. Who should it be, 
again, but the very image of Mr. Toil ! 

“ There is a large family of these Toils,” 
290 


LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY 


remarked the stranger. “This is another of 
the old schoolmaster’s brothers, who was bred 
in Italy, where he acquired very idle habits, 
and goes by the name of Signor Far Niente. 
He pretends to lead an easy life, but is really 
the most miserable fellow in the family.” 

“ O take me back ! — take me back ! ” cried 
poor little Daffy do wndilly, bursting into tears. 
“ If there is nothing but Toil all the world 
over, I may just as well go back to the school- 
house ! ” 

“ Yonder it is, — there is the schoolhouse ! ” 
said the stranger ; for though he and little Daf- 
fydowndilly had taken a great many steps, they 
had travelled in a circle instead of a straight 
line. “ Come ; we will go back to school to- 
gether.” 

There was something in his companion’s 
voice that little Daffydowndilly now remem- 
bered, and it is strange that he had not remem- 
bered it sooner. Looking up into his face, 
behold ! there again was the likeness of old 
Mr. Toil; so that the poor child had been in 
company with Toil all day, even while he was 
doing his best to run away from him. Some 
people, to whom I have told little Daffydown- 
dilly’s story, are of opinion that old Mr. Toil 
was a magician, and possessed the power of 
multiplying himself into as many shapes as he 
saw fit. 


291 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

Be this as it may, little Daffydowndilly had 
learned a good lesson, and from that time for- 
ward was diligent at his task, because he knew 
that diligence is not a whit more toilsome than 
sport or idleness. And when he became better 
acquainted with Mr. Toil, he began to think 
that his ways were not so very disagreeable, and 
that the old schoolmaster’s smile of approbation 
made his face almost as pleasant as even that 
of Daffydowndilly’s mother. 

292 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

/^FTER the kings of Great Britain had 
assumed the right of appointing the 
colonial governors, the measures of the 
latter seldom met with the ready and general 
approbation which had been paid to those of 
their predecessors, under the original charters. 
The people looked with most jealous scrutiny 
to the exercise of power which did not emanate 
from themselves, and they usually rewarded 
their rulers with slender gratitude for the com- 
pliances by which, in softening their instructions 
from beyond the sea, they had incurred the 
reprehension of those who gave them. The 
annals of Massachusetts Bay will inform us, 
that of six governors in the space of about forty 
years from the surrender of the old charter, 
under James II., two were imprisoned by a 
popular insurrection ; a third, as Hutchinson 
inclines to believe, was driven from the province 
by the whizzing of a musket-ball ; a fourth, in 
the opinion of the same historian, was hastened 
to his grave by continual bickerings with the 
House of Representatives ; and the remaining 
two, as well as their successors, till the Revolu- 
tion, were favored with few and brief intervals 
293 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


of peaceful sway. The inferior members of the 
court party, in times of high political excite- 
ment, led scarcely a more desirable life. These 
remarks may serve as a preface to the following 
adventures, which chanced upon a summer 
night, not far from a hundred years ago. The 
reader, in order to avoid a long and dry detail 
of colonial affairs, is requested to dispense with 
an account of the train of circumstances that 
had caused much temporary inflammation of 
the popular mind. 

It was near nine o'clock of a moonlight even- 
ing, when a boat crossed the ferry with a single 
passenger, who had obtained his conveyance at 
that unusual hour by the promise of an extra 
fare. While he stood on the landing-place, 
searching in either pocket for the means of ful- 
filling his agreement, the ferryman lifted a lan- 
tern, by the aid of which, and the newly risen 
moon, he took a very accurate survey of the 
stranger's figure. He was a youth of barely 
eighteen years, evidently country-bred, and now, 
as it should seem, upon his first visit to town. 
He was clad in a coarse gray coat, well worn, 
but in excellent repair ; his under garments 
were durably constructed of leather, and fitted 
tight to a pair of serviceable and well-shaped 
limbs ; his stockings of blue yarn were the in- 
controvertible work of a mother or a sister ; and 
on his head was a three-cornered hat, which in 
294 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

its better days had perhaps sheltered the graver 
brow of the lad’s father. Under his left arm 
was a heavy cudgel formed of an oak sapling, 
and retaining a part of the hardened root ; and 
his equipment was completed by a wallet, not 
so abundantly stocked as to incommode the 
vigorous shoulders on which it hung. Brown, 
curly hair, well-shaped features, and bright, 
cheerful eyes were nature’s gifts, and worth all 
that art could have done for his adornment. 

The youth, one of whose names was Robin, 
finally drew from his pocket the half of a little 
province bill of five shillings, which, in the, 
depreciation in that sort of currency, did but 
satisfy the ferryman’s demand, with the surplus 
of a sexangular piece of parchment, valued at 
three-pence. He then walked forward into the 
town, with as light a step as if his day’s journey 
had not already exceeded thirty miles, and with 
as eager an eye as if he were entering London 
city, instead of the little metropolis of a New 
England colony. Before Robin had proceeded 
far, however, it occurred to him that he knew 
not whither to direct his steps ; so he paused, 
and looked up and down the narrow street, 
scrutinizing the small and mean wooden build- 
ings that were scattered on either side. 

“ This low hovel cannot be my kinsman’s 
dwelling,” thought he, “ nor yonder old house, 
where the moonlight enters at the broken case- 
295 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


ment ; and truly I see none hereabouts that 
might be worthy of him. It would have been 
wise to inquire my way of the ferryman, and 
doubtless he would have gone with me, and 
earned a shilling from the Major for his pains. 
But the next man I meet will do as well.” 

He resumed his walk, and was glad to per- 
ceive that the street now became wider, and the 
houses more respectable in their appearance. 
He soon discerned a figure moving on moder- 
ately in advance, and hastened his steps to over- 
take it. As Robin drew nigh, he saw that the 
passenger was a man in years, with a full peri- 
wig of gray hair, a wide-skirted coat of dark 
cloth, and silk stockings rolled above his knees. 
He carried a long and polished cane, which he 
struck down perpendicularly before him at every 
step ; and at regular intervals he uttered two 
successive hems, of a peculiarly solemn and 
sepulchral intonation. Having made these ob- 
servations, Robin laid hold of the skirt of the 
old man’s coat, just when the light from the 
open door and windows of a barber’s shop fell 
upon both their figures. 

“Good-evening to you, honored sir,” said 
he, making a low bow, and still retaining his 
hold of the skirt. “ I pray you tell me where- 
abouts is the dwelling of my kinsman, Major 
Molineux.” 

The youth’s question was uttered very loudly ; 

296 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

and one of the barbers, whose razor was de- 
scending on a well-soaped chin, and another 
who was dressing a Ramillies wig, left their oc- 
cupations, and came to the door. The citizen, 
in the mean time, turned a long-favored coun- 
tenance upon Robin, and answered him in a 
tone of excessive anger and annoyance. His 
two sepulchral hems, however, broke into the 
very centre of his rebuke, with most singular 
effect, like a thought of the cold grave obtrud- 
ing among wrathful passions. 

“ Let go my garment, fellow ! I tell you, I 
know not the man you speak of. What ! I 
have authority, I have — hem, hem — author- 
ity ; and if this be the respect you show for your 
betters, your feet shall be brought acquainted 
with the stocks by daylight, to-morrow morn- 
ing ! ” 

Robin released the old man’s skirt, and has- 
tened away, pursued by an ill-mannered roar 
of laughter from the barber’s shop. He was 
at first considerably surprised by the result of 
his question, but, being a shrewd youth, soon 
thought himself able to account for the mys- 
tery. 

“ This is some country representative,” was 
his conclusion, “ who has never seen the inside 
of my kinsman’s door, and lacks the breeding 
to answer a stranger civilly. The man is old, 
or verily — I might be tempted to turn back 
297 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


and smite him on the nose. Ah, Robin, 
Robin ! even the barber’s boys laugh at you 
for choosing such a guide ! You will be wiser 
in time, friend Robin.” 

He now became entangled in a succession of 
crooked and narrow streets, which crossed each 
other, and meandered at no great distance from 
the water-side. The smell of tar was obvious 
to his nostrils, the masts of vessels pierced the 
moonlight above the tops of the buildings, and 
the numerous signs, which Robin paused to 
read, informed him that he was near the centre 
of business. But the streets were empty, the 
shops were closed, and lights were visible only 
in the second stories of a few dwelling-houses. 
At length, on the corner of a narrow lane, 
through which he was passing, he beheld the 
broad countenance of a British hero swinging 
before the door of an inn, whence proceeded the 
voices of many guests. The casement of one of 
the lower windows was thrown back, and a very 
thin curtain permitted Robin to distinguish a 
party at supper, round a well-furnished table. 
The fragrance of the good cheer steamed forth 
into the outer air, and the youth could not fail 
to recollect that the last remnant of his travel- 
ling stock of provisions had yielded to his morn- 
ing appetite, and that noon had found and left 
him dinnerless. 

“ O, that a parchment three-penny might 
298 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

give me a right to sit down at yonder table ! ” 
said Robin with a sigh. cc But the Major will 
make me welcome to the best of his victuals ; 
so I will even step boldly in, and inquire my 
way to his dwelling.” 

He entered the tavern, and was guided by 
the murmur of voices and the fumes of tobacco 
to the public-room. It was a long and low 
apartment, with oaken walls, grown dark in the 
continual smoke, and a floor which was thickly 
sanded, but of no immaculate purity. A num- 
ber of persons — the larger part of whom ap- 
peared to be mariners, or in some way connected 
with the sea — occupied the wooden benches, 
or leather-bottomed chairs, conversing on vari- 
ous matters, and occasionally lending their at- 
tention to some topic of general interest. Three 
or four little groups were draining as many bowls 
of punch, which the West India trade had long 
since made a familiar drink in the colony. 
Others, who had the appearance of men who 
lived by regular and laborious handicraft, pre- 
ferred the insulated bliss of an unshared pota- 
tion, and became more taciturn under its influ- 
ence. Nearly all, in short, evinced a predilection 
for the Good Creature in some of its various 
shapes, for this is a vice to which, as Fast Day 
sermons of a hundred years ago will testify, we 
have a long hereditary claim. The only guests 
to whom Robin's sympathies inclined him were 
299 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


two or three sheepish countrymen, who were 
using the inn somewhat after the fashion of a 
Turkish caravansary ; they had gotten them- 
selves into the darkest corner of the room, and, 
heedless of the Nicotian atmosphere, were sup- 
ping on the bread of their own ovens, and the 
bacon cured in their own chimney smoke. But 
though Robin felt a sort of brotherhood with 
these strangers, his eyes were attracted from 
them to a person who stood near the door, hold- 
ing whispered conversation with a group of ill- 
dressed associates. His features were separately 
striking almost to grotesqueness, and the whole 
face left a deep impression on the memory. 
The forehead bulged out into a double promi- 
nence, with a vale between ; the nose came 
boldly forth in an irregular curve, and its bridge 
was of more than a finger’s breadth ; the eye- 
brows were deep and shaggy, and the eyes 
glowed beneath them like fire in a cave. 

While Robin deliberated of whom to inquire 
respecting his kinsman’s dwelling, he was ac- 
costed by the innkeeper, a little man in a 
stained white apron, who had come to pay his 
professional welcome to the stranger. Being in 
the second generation from a French Protestant, 
he seemed to have inherited the courtesy of his 
parent nation ; but no variety of circumstances 
was ever known to change his voice from the one 
shrill note in which he now addressed Robin. 

3 00 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

“From the country, I presume, sir?” said 
he, with a profound bow. “ Beg leave to con- 
gratulate you on your arrival, and trust you in- 
tend a long stay with us. Fine town here, sir, 
beautiful buildings, and much that may interest 
a stranger. May I hope for the honor of your 
commands in respect to supper ? ” 

“ The man sees a family likeness ! the rogue 
has guessed that I am related to the Major ! ” 
thought Robin, who had hitherto experienced 
little superfluous civility. 

All eyes were now turned on the country lad, 
standing at the door, in his worn three-cornered 
hat, gray coat, leather breeches, and blue yarn 
stockings, leaning on an oaken cudgel, and bear- 
ing a wallet on his back. 

Robin replied to the courteous innkeeper, 
with such an assumption of confidence as be- 
fitted the Major's relative. “ My honest friend,” 
he said, “ I shall make it a point to patronize 
your house on some occasion, when ” — here 
he could not help lowering his voice — £C when 
I may have more than a parchment three-pence 
in my pocket. My present business,” con- 
tinued he, speaking with lofty confidence, “ is 
merely to inquire my way to the dwelling of 
my kinsman. Major Molineux.” 

There was a sudden and general movement in 
the room, which Robin interpreted as express- 
ing the eagerness of each individual to become 
3 01 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


his guide. But the innkeeper turned his eyes 
to a written paper on the wall, which he read, 
or seemed to read, with occasional recurrences 
to the young man's figure. 

“What have we here?” said he, breaking 
his speech into little dry fragments. “ c Left 
the house of the subscriber, bounden servant, 
Hezekiah Mudge, — had on, when he went 
away, gray coat, leather breeches, master's third- 
best hat. One pound currency reward to who- 
soever shall lodge him in any jail of the pro- 
vince.' Better trudge, boy ; better trudge ! ” 

Robin had begun to draw his hand towards 
the lighter end of the oak cudgel, but a strange 
hostility in every countenance induced him to 
relinquish his purpose of breaking the courte- 
ous innkeeper's head. As he turned to leave 
the room, he encountered a sneering glance 
from the bold-featured personage whom he had 
before noticed ; and no sooner was he beyond 
the door, than he heard a general laugh, in 
which the innkeeper's voice might be distin- 
guished, like the dropping of small stones into 
a kettle. 

“Now, is it not strange,” thought Robin, 
with his usual shrewdness, — “is it not strange 
that the confession of an empty pocket should 
outweigh the name of my kinsman. Major Mo- 
lineux ? O, if I had one of those grinning ras- 
cals in the woods, where I and my oak sapling 
302 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

grew up together, I would teach him that my 
arm is heavy, though my purse be light ! ” 

On turning the corner of the narrow lane, 
Robin found himself in a spacious street, with 
an unbroken line of lofty houses on each side, 
and a steepled building at the upper end, whence 
the ringing of a bell announced the hour of 
nine. The light of the moon, and the lamps 
from the numerous shop-windows, discovered 
people promenading on the pavement, and 
amongst them Robin hoped to recognize his 
hitherto inscrutable relative. The result of his 
former inquiries made him unwilling to hazard 
another, in a scene of such publicity, and he 
determined to walk slowly and silently up the 
street, thrusting his face close to that of every 
elderly gentleman, in search of the Major's lin- 
eaments. In his progress, Robin encountered 
many gay and gallant figures. Embroidered 
garments of showy colors, enormous periwigs, 
gold-laced hats, and silver-hilted swords glided 
past him and dazzled his optics. Travelled 
youths, imitators of the European fine gentle- 
men of the period, trod jauntily along, half 
dancing to the fashionable tunes which they 
hummed, and making poor Robin ashamed of 
his quiet and natural gait. At length, after many 
pauses to examine the gorgeous display of goods 
in the shop-windows, and after suffering some 
rebukes for the impertinence of his scrutiny into 
3°3 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


people's faces, the Major's kinsman found him- 
self near the steepled building, still unsuccessful 
in his search. As yet, however, he had seen 
only one side of the thronged street ; so Robin 
crossed, and continued the same sort of in- 
quisition down the opposite pavement, with 
stronger hopes than the philosopher seeking an 
honest man, but with no better fortune. He 
had arrived about midway towards the lower 
end, from which his course began, when he 
overheard the approach of some one who struck 
down a cane on the flagstones at every step, 
uttering, at regular intervals, two sepulchral 
hems. 

“ Mercy on us !" quoth Robin, recognizing 
the sound. 

Turning a corner, which chanced to be close 
at his right hand, he hastened to pursue his 
researches in some other part of the town. His 
patience now was wearing low, and he seemed 
to feel more fatigue from his rambles since 
he crossed the ferry, than from his journey of 
several days on the other side. Hunger also 
pleaded loudly within him, and Robin began to 
balance the propriety of demanding, violently, 
and with lifted cudgel, the necessary guidance 
from the first solitary passenger whom he should 
meet. While a resolution to this effect was 
gaining strength, he entered a street of mean 
appearance, on either side of which a row of ill- 
3°4 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

built houses was straggling towards the harbor. 
The moonlight fell upon no passenger along 
the whole extent, but in the third domicile 
which Robin passed there was a half-opened 
door, and his keen glance detected a woman’s 
garment within. 

“ My luck may be better here,” said he to 
himself. 

Accordingly, he approached the door, and 
beheld it shut closer as he did so ; yet an open 
space remained, sufficing for the fair occupant 
to observe the stranger, without a correspond- 
ing display on her part. All that Robin could 
discern was a strip of scarlet petticoat, and 
the occasional sparkle of an eye, as if the 
moonbeams were trembling on some bright 
thing. 

“ Pretty mistress,” for I may call her so with 
a good conscience, thought the shrewd youth, 
since I know nothing to the contrary, — “ my 
sweet pretty mistress, will you be kind enough 
to tell me whereabouts I must seek the dwell- 
ing of my kinsman, Major Molineux ? ” 

Robin’s voice was plaintive and winning, and 
the female, seeing nothing to be shunned in the 
handsome country youth, thrust open the door, 
and came forth into the moonlight. She was a 
dainty little figure, with a white neck, round 
arms, and a slender waist, at the extremity of 
which her scarlet petticoat jutted out over a 
3°5 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


hoop, as if she were standing in a balloon. 
Moreover, her face was oval and pretty, her 
hair dark beneath the little cap, and her bright 
eyes possessed a sly freedom, which triumphed 
over those of Robin. 

“ Major Molineux dwells here,” said this fair 
woman. 

Now, her voice was the sweetest Robin had 
heard that night, the airy counterpart of a 
stream of melted silver ; yet he could not help 
doubting whether that sweet voice spoke Gos- 
pel truth. He looked up and down the mean 
street, and then surveyed the house before which 
they stood. It was a small, dark edifice of two 
stories, the second of which projected over the 
lower floor, and the front apartment had the 
aspect of a shop for petty commodities. 

“Now, truly, I am in luck,” replied Robin 
cunningly, “and so indeed is my kinsman, the 
Major, in having so pretty a housekeeper. But 
I prithee trouble him to step to the door ; I 
will deliver him a message from his friends in 
the country, and then go back to my lodgings 
at the inn.” 

“Nay, the Major has been abed this hour or 
more,” said the lady of the scarlet petticoat; 
“ and it would be to little purpose to disturb 
him to-night, seeing his evening draught was of 
the strongest. But he is a kind-hearted man, 
and it would be as much as my life ’s worth to 
3°6 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

let a kinsman of his turn away from the door. 
You are the good old gentleman’s very picture, 
and I could swear that was his rainy-weather 
hat. Also he has garments very much resem- 
bling those leather small-clothes. But come in, 
I pray, for I bid you hearty welcome in his 
name.” 

So saying, the fair and hospitable dame took 
our hero by the hand ; and the touch was light, 
and the force was gentleness, and though Robin 
read in her eyes what he did not hear in her 
words, yet the slender-waisted woman in the 
scarlet petticoat proved stronger than the ath- 
letic country youth. She had drawn his half- 
willing footsteps nearly to the threshold, when 
the opening of a door in the neighborhood 
startled the Major’s housekeeper, and, leaving 
the Major’s kinsman, she vanished speedily into 
her own domicile. A heavy yawn preceded the 
appearance of a man, who, like the Moonshine 
of Pyramus and Thisbe, carried a lantern, need- 
lessly aiding his sister luminary in the heavens. 
As he walked sleepily up the street, he turned 
his broad, dull face on Robin, and displayed a 
long staff, spiked at the end. 

“ Home, vagabond, home ! ” said the watch- 
man, in accents that seemed to fall asleep as 
soon as they were uttered. “ Home, or we ’ll 
set you in the stocks by peep of day ! ” 

“ This is the second hint of the kind,” 
307 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


thought Robin. “ I wish they would end my 
difficulties, by setting me there to-night. ,, 

Nevertheless, the youth felt an instinctive 
antipathy towards the guardian of midnight 
order, which at first prevented him from asking 
his usual question. But just when the man was 
about to vanish behind the corner, Robin re- 
solved not to lose the opportunity, and shouted 
lustily after him, — 

“ I say, friend ! will you guide me to the 
house of my kinsman. Major Molineux ? ” 

The watchman made no reply, but turned the 
corner and was gone ; yet Robin seemed to hear 
the sound of drowsy laughter stealing along 
the solitary street. At that moment, also, a 
pleasant titter saluted him from the open win- 
dow above his head ; he looked up, and caught 
the sparkle of a saucy eye ; a round arm beck- 
oned to him, and next he heard light footsteps 
descending the staircase within. But Robin, 
being of the household of a New England 
clergyman, was a good youth, as well as a 
shrewd one ; so he resisted temptation, and 
fled away. 

He now roamed desperately, and at random, 
through the town, almost ready to believe that 
a spell was on him, like that by which a wizard 
of his country had once kept three pursuers 
wandering, a whole winter night, within twenty 
paces of the cottage which they sought. The 
3°8 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

streets lay before him, strange and desolate, and 
the lights were extinguished in almost every 
house. Twice, however, little parties of men, 
among whom Robin distinguished individu- 
als in outlandish attire, came hurrying along ; 
but, though on both occasions they paused to 
address him, such intercourse did not at all 
enlighten his perplexity. They did but utter 
a few words in some language of which Robin 
knew nothing, and perceiving his inability to 
answer, bestowed a curse upon him in plain 
English and hastened away. Finally, the lad 
determined to knock at the door of every man- 
sion that might appear worthy to be occupied 
by his kinsman, trusting that perseverance would 
overcome the fatality that had hitherto thwarted 
him. Firm in this resolve, he was passing be- 
neath the walls of a church, which formed the 
corner of two streets, when, as he turned into 
the shade of its steeple, he encountered a bulky 
stranger, muffled in a cloak. The man was 
proceeding with the speed of earnest business, 
but Robin planted himself full before him, 
holding the oak cudgel with both hands across 
his body as a bar to further passage. 

“ Halt, honest man, and answer me a ques- 
tion,” said he very resolutely. “ Tell me, this 
instant, whereabouts is the dwelling of my kins- 
man, Major Molineux ! ” 

<c Keep your tongue between your teeth, fool, 

3°9 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


and let me pass ! ” said a deep, gruff voice, which 
Robin partly remembered. “ Let me pass, I 
say, or I ’ll strike you to the earth ! ” 

“ No, no, neighbor ! ” cried Robin, flourish- 
ing his cudgel, and then thrusting its larger end 
close to the man’s muffled face. “ No, no, I ’m 
not the fool you take me for, nor do you pass 
till I have an answer to my question. Where- 
abouts is the dwelling of my kinsman, Major 
Molineux ? ” 

The stranger, instead of attempting to force 
his passage, stepped back into the moonlight, 
unmuffled his face, and stared full into that of 
Robin. 

“ Watch here an hour, and Major Molineux 
will pass by,” said he. 

Robin gazed with dismay and astonishment 
on the unprecedented physiognomy of the 
speaker. The forehead with its double promi- 
nence, the broad hooked nose, the shaggy eye- 
brows, and fiery eyes were those which he had 
noticed at the inn, but the man’s complexion 
had undergone a singular, or, more properly, a 
twofold change. One side of the face blazed an 
intense red, while the other was black as mid- 
night, the division line being in the broad bridge 
of the nose ; and a mouth which seemed to ex- 
tend from ear to ear was black or red, in con- 
trast to the color of the cheek. The effect was 
as if two individual devils, a fiend of fire and 
3!0 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

a fiend of darkness, had united themselves to 
form this infernal visage. The stranger grinned 
in Robin’s face, muffied his party-colored fea- 
tures, and was out of sight in a moment. 

“ Strange things we travellers see ! ” ejacu- 
lated Robin. 

He seated himself, however, upon the steps 
of the church door, resolving to wait the ap- 
pointed time for his kinsman. A few moments 
were consumed in philosophical speculations 
upon the species of man who had just left him ; 
but having settled this point shrewdly, ration- 
ally, and satisfactorily, he was compelled to look 
elsewhere for his amusement. And first he 
threw his eyes along the street. It was of more 
respectable appearance than most of those into 
which he had wandered ; and the moon, cre- 
ating, like the imaginative power, a beautiful 
strangeness in familiar objects, gave something 
of romance to a scene that might not have pos- 
sessed it in the light of day. The irregular and 
often quaint architecture of the houses, some of 
whose roofs were broken into numerous little 
peaks, while others ascended, steep and narrow, 
into a single point, and others again were square ; 
the pure snow-white of some of their complex- 
ions, the aged darkness of others, and the thou- 
sand sparklings, reflected from bright substances 
in the walls of many ; these matters engaged 
Robin’s attention for a while, and then began 
3 11 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


to grow wearisome. Next he endeavored to 
define the forms of distant objects, starting away, 
with almost ghostly indistinctness, just as his 
eye appeared to grasp them ; and finally he took 
a minute survey of an edifice which stood on 
the opposite side of the street, directly in front 
of the church door, where he was stationed. It 
was a large, square mansion, distinguished from 
its neighbors by a balcony, which rested on tall 
pillars, and by an elaborate Gothic window, 
communicating therewith. 

“ Perhaps this is the very house I have been 
seeking,” thought Robin. 

Then he strove to speed away the time, by 
listening to a murmur which swept continually 
along the street, yet was scarcely audible, ex- 
cept to an unaccustomed ear like his ; it was a 
low, dull, dreamy sound, compounded of many 
noises, each of which was at too great a distance 
to be separately heard. Robin marvelled at 
this snore of a sleeping town, and marvelled 
more whenever its continuity was broken by 
now and then a distant shout, apparently loud 
where it originated. But altogether it was a 
sleep-inspiring sound, and, to shake off its 
drowsy influence, Robin arose, and climbed a 
window frame, that he might view the interior 
of the church. There the moonbeams came 
trembling in, and fell down upon the deserted 
pews, and extended along the quiet aisles. A 
3 12 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

fainter yet more awful radiance was hovering 
around the pulpit, and one solitary ray had dared 
to rest upon the open page of the great Bible. 
Had nature, in that deep hour, become a wor- 
shipper in the house which man had builded ? 
Or was that heavenly light the visible sanc- 
tity of the place, — visible because no earthly 
and impure feet were within the walls ? The 
scene made Robin’s heart shiver with a sensa- 
tion of loneliness stronger than he had ever 
felt in the remotest depths of his native woods ; 
so he turned away and sat down again be- 
fore the door. There were graves around the 
church, and now an uneasy thought obtruded 
into Robin’s breast. What if the object of his 
search, which had been so often and so strangely 
thwarted, were all the time mouldering in his 
shroud? What if his kinsman should glide 
through yonder gate, and nod and smile to him 
in dimly passing by ? 

“ O that any breathing thing were here with 
me ! ” said Robin. 

Recalling his thoughts from this uncomfort- 
able track, he sent them over forest, hill, and 
stream, and attempted to imagine how that 
evening of ambiguity and weariness had been 
spent by his father’s household. He pictured 
them assembled at the door, beneath the tree, 
the great old tree, which had been spared for its 
huge twisted trunk and venerable shade, when 
3!3 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 

a thousand leafy brethren fell. There, at the 
going down of the summer sun, it was his 
father's custom to perform domestic worship, 
that the neighbors might come and join with 
him like brothers of the family, and that the 
wayfaring man might pause to drink at that 
fountain, and keep his heart pure by freshening 
the memory of home. Robin distinguished the 
seat of every individual of the little audience ; 
he saw the good man in the midst, holding the 
Scriptures in the golden light that fell from the 
western clouds ; he beheld him close the book 
and all rise up to pray. He heard the old 
thanksgivings for daily mercies, the old suppli- 
cations for their continuance, to which he had 
so often listened in weariness, but which were 
now among his dear remembrances. He per- 
ceived the slight inequality of his father’s voice 
when he came to speak of the absent one ; he 
noted how his mother turned her face to the 
broad and knotted trunk ; how his elder brother 
scorned, because the beard was rough upon 
his upper lip, to permit his features to be moved ; 
how the younger sister drew down a low hang- 
ing branch before her eyes ; and how the little 
one of all, whose sports had hitherto broken 
the decorum of the scene, understood the prayer 
for her playmate, and burst into clamorous 
grief. Then he saw them go in at the door ; 
and when Robin would have entered also, the 
3H 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

latch tinkled into its place, and he was excluded 
from his home. 

“ Am I here, or there ? ” cried Robin, start- 
ing ; for all at once, when his thoughts had 
become visible and audible in a dream, the long, 
wide, solitary street shone out before him. 

He aroused himself, and endeavored to fix 
his attention steadily upon the large edifice 
which he had surveyed before. But still his 
mind kept vibrating between fancy and reality ; 
by turns, the pillars of the balcony lengthened 
into the tall, bare stems of pines, dwindled 
down to human figures, settled again into their 
true shape and size, and then commenced a new 
succession of changes. For a single moment, 
when he deemed himself awake, he could have 
sworn that a visage — one which he seemed to 
remember, yet could not absolutely name as 
his kinsman’s — was looking towards him from 
the Gothic window. A deeper sleep wrestled 
with and nearly overcame him, but fled at the 
sound of footsteps along the opposite pave- 
ment. Robin rubbed his eyes, discerned a 
man passing at the foot of the balcony, and 
addressed him in a loud, peevish, and lamenta- 
ble cry. 

“ Hallo, friend ! must I wait here all night 
for my kinsman, Major Molineux?” 

The sleeping echoes awoke, and answered 
the voice; and the passenger, barely able to 
3 J 5 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


discern a figure sitting in the oblique shade of 
the steeple, traversed the street to obtain a 
nearer view. He was himself a gentleman in 
his prime, of open, intelligent, cheerful, and 
altogether prepossessing countenance. Per- 
ceiving a country youth, apparently homeless 
and without friends, he accosted him in a tone 
of real kindness, which had become strange to 
Robin’s ears. 

“ Well, my good lad, why are you sitting 
here ? ” inquired he. “ Can I be of service to 
you in any way ? ” 

“ I am afraid not, sir,” replied Robin de- 
spondingly ; “ yet I shall take it kindly, if you ’ll 
answer me a single question. I ’ve been search- 
ing, half the night, for one Major Molineux; 
now, sir, is there really such a person in these 
parts, or am I dreaming ? ” 

u Major Molineux ! The name is not al- 
together strange to me,” said the gentleman, 
smiling. “ Have you any objection to telling 
me the nature of your business with him ? ” 
Then Robin briefly related that his father 
was a clergyman, settled on a small salary, at a 
long distance back in the country, and that he 
and Major Molineux were brothers’ children. 
The Major, having inherited riches, and ac- 
quired civil and military rank, had visited his 
cousin, in great pomp, a year or two before ; 
had manifested much interest in Robin and an 
316 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

elder brother, and, being childless himself, had 
thrown out hints respecting the future establish- 
ment of one of them in life. The elder brother 
was destined to succeed to the farm which his 
father cultivated in the interval of sacred duties ; 
it was therefore determined that Robin should 
profit by his kinsman’s generous intentions, 
especially as he seemed to be rather the favor- 
ite, and was thought to possess other necessary 
endowments. 

“For I have the name of being a shrewd 
youth,” observed Robin, in this part of his 
story. 

“ I doubt not you deserve it,” replied his 
new friend good-naturedly ; “ but pray pro- 
ceed.” 

“ Well, sir, being nearly eighteen years old, 
and well grown, as you see,” continued Robin, 
drawing himself up to his full height, “ I 
thought it high time to begin the world. So 
my mother and sister put me in handsome 
trim, and my father gave me half the remnant 
of his last year’s salary, and five days ago I 
started for this place, to pay the Major a visit. 
But, would you believe it, sir ! I crossed the 
ferry a little after dark, and have yet found 
nobody that would show me the way to his 
dwelling; only, an hour or two since, I was 
told to wait here, and Major Molineux would 
pass by.” 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


<c Can you describe the man who told you 
this ? ” inquired the gentleman. 

“ O, he was a very ill-favored fellow, sir,” 
replied Robin, cc with two great bumps on his 
forehead, a hook nose, fiery eyes ; and, what 
struck me as the strangest, his face was of two 
different colors. Do you happen to know such 
a man, sir ? ” 

“ Not intimately,” answered the stranger, 
“ but I chanced to meet him a little time pre- 
vious to your stopping me. I believe you may 
trust his word, and that the Major will very 
shortly pass through this street. In the mean 
time, as I have a singular curiosity to witness 
your meeting, I will sit down here upon the 
steps and bear you company.” 

He seated himself accordingly, and soon 
engaged his companion in animated discourse. 
It was but of brief continuance, however, for 
a noise of shouting, which had long been 
remotely audible, drew so much nearer that 
Robin inquired its cause. 

cc What may be the meaning of this uproar ? ” 
asked he. “ Truly, if your town be always 
as noisy, I shall find little sleep while I am an 
inhabitant.” 

“ Why, indeed, friend Robin, there do ap- 
pear to be three or four riotous fellows abroad 
to-night,” replied the gentleman. “ You must 
3i8 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

not expect all the stillness of your native woods 
here in our streets. But the watch will shortly 
be at the heels of these lads and” — 

“ Ay, and set them in the stocks by peep 
of day,” interrupted Robin, recollecting his 
own encounter with the drowsy lantern-bearer. 
“ But, dear sir, if I may trust my ears, an army 
of watchmen would never make head against 
such a multitude of rioters. There were at 
least a thousand voices went up to make that 
one shout.” 

“ May not a man have several voices, Robin, 
as well as two complexions ? ” said his friend. 

“ Perhaps a man may ; but Heaven forbid 
that a woman should ! ” responded the shrewd 
youth, thinking of the seductive tones of the 
Major’s housekeeper. 

The sounds of a trumpet in some neighbor- 
ing street now became so evident and continual, 
that Robin’s curiosity was strongly excited. In 
addition to the shouts, he heard frequent bursts 
from many instruments of discord, and a wild 
and confused laughter filled up the intervals. 
Robin rose from the steps, and looked wistfully 
towards a point whither people seemed to be 
hastening. 

“ Surely some prodigious merry-making is 
going on,” exclaimed he. “ I have laughed 
very little since I left home, sir, and should be 
3 J 9 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


sorry to lose an opportunity. Shall we step 
round the corner by that darkish house, and 
take our share of the fun ? ” 

“ Sit down again, sit down, good Robin,” 
replied the gentleman, laying his hand on the 
skirt of the gray coat. “ You forget that we 
must wait here for your kinsman ; and there is 
reason to believe that he will pass by, in the 
course of a very few moments.” 

The near approach of the uproar had now 
disturbed the neighborhood ; windows flew 
open on all sides ; and many heads, in the 
attire of the pillow, and confused by sleep sud- 
denly broken, were protruded to the gaze of 
whoever had leisure to observe them. Eager 
voices hailed each other from house to house, 
all demanding the explanation, which not a 
soul could give. Half-dressed men hurried 
towards the unknown commotion, stumbling as 
they went over the stone steps that thrust them- 
selves into the narrow footwalk. The shouts, 
the laughter, and the tuneless bray, the antip- 
odes of music, came onwards with increasing 
din, till scattered individuals, and then denser 
bodies, began to appear round a corner at the 
distance of a hundred yards. 

“ Will you recognize your kinsman, if he 
passes in this crowd ? ” inquired the gentleman. 

“ Indeed, I can't warrant it, sir ; but I 'll take 
my stand here, and keep a bright lookout,'’ 
3 20 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

answered Robin, descending to the outer edge 
of the pavement. 

A mighty stream of people now emptied 
into the street, and came rolling slowly towards 
the church. A single horseman wheeled the 
corner in the midst of them, and close behind 
him came a band of fearful wind-instruments, 
sending forth a fresher discord now that no in- 
tervening buildings kept it from the ear. Then 
a redder light disturbed the moonbeams, and a 
dense multitude of torches shone along the 
street, concealing, by their glare, whatever ob- 
ject they illuminated. The single horseman, 
clad in a military dress, and bearing a drawn 
sword, rode onward as the leader, and, by his 
fierce and variegated countenance, appeared like 
war personified ; the red of one cheek was an 
emblem of fire and sword ; the blackness of the 
other betokened the mourning that attends 
them. In his train were wild figures in the In- 
dian dress, and many fantastic shapes without a 
model, giving the whole march a visionary air, 
as if a dream had broken forth from some fever- 
ish brain, and were sweeping visibly through 
the midnight streets. A mass of people, inac- 
tive, except as applauding spectators, hemmed 
the procession in ; and several women ran along 
the sidewalk, piercing the confusion of heavier 
sounds with their shrill voices of mirth or 
terror. 


3 21 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


“The double-faced fellow has his eye upon 
me,” muttered Robin, with an indefinite but 
an uncomfortable idea that he was himself to 
bear a part in the pageantry. 

The leader turned himself in the saddle, and 
fixed his glance full upon the country youth, as 
the steed went slowly by. When Robin had 
freed his eyes from those fiery ones, the musi- 
cians were passing before him, and the torches 
were close at hand ; but the unsteady bright- 
ness of the latter formed a veil which he could 
not penetrate. The rattling of wheels over the 
stones sometimes found its way to his ear, and 
confused traces of" a human form appeared at 
intervals, and then melted into the vivid light. 
A moment .more, and the leader thundered a 
command to halt : the trumpets vomited a hor- 
rid breath, and then held their peace ; the shouts 
and laughter of the people died away, and there 
remained only a universal hum, allied to silence. 
Right before Robin's eyes was an uncovered 
cart. There the torches blazed the brightest, 
there the moon shone out like day, and there, 
in tar-and-feathery dignity, sat his kinsman, 
Major Molineux ! 

He was an elderly man, of large and majestic 
person, and strong, square features, betokening 
a steady soul ; but steady as it was, his enemies 
had found means to shake it. His face was 
pale as death, and far more ghastly ; the broad 
3 22 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

forehead was contracted in his agony, so that his 
eyebrows formed one grizzled line ; his eyes 
were red and wild, and the foam hung white 
upon his quivering lip. His whole frame was 
agitated by a quick and continual tremor, which 
his pride strove to quell, even in those circum- 
stances of overwhelming humiliation. But per- 
haps the bitterest pang of all was when his eyes 
met those of Robin ; for he evidently knew him 
on the instant, as the youth stood witnessing 
the foul disgrace of a head grown gray in honor. 
They stared at each other in silence, and 
Robin's knees shook, and his hair bristled, with 
a mixture of pity and terror. Soon, however, a 
bewildering excitement began to seize upon his 
mind ; the preceding adventures of the night, 
the unexpected appearance of the crowd, the 
torches, the confused din and the hush that fol- 
lowed, the spectre of his kinsman reviled by 
that great multitude, — all this, and, more than 
all, a perception of tremendous ridicule in the 
whole scene, affected him with a sort of mental 
inebriety. At that moment a voice of slug- 
gish merriment saluted Robin’s ears ; he turned 
instinctively, and just behind the corner of 
the church stood the lantern-bearer, rubbing his 
eyes, and drowsily enjoying the lad’s amaze- 
ment. Then he heard a peal of laughter like 
the ringing of silvery bells ; a woman twitched 
his arm, a saucy eye met his, and he saw the 
3 2 3 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


lady of the scarlet petticoat. A sharp, dry 
cachinnation appealed to his memory, and, 
standing on tiptoe in the crowd, with his white 
apron oyer his head, he beheld the courteous 
little innkeeper. And lastly, there sailed over 
the heads of the multitude a great, broad laugh, 
broken in the midst by two sepulchral hems ; 
thus, cc Haw, haw, haw, — hem, hem, — haw, 
haw, haw, haw ! ” 

The sound proceeded from the balcony of 
the opposite edifice, and thither Robin turned 
his eyes. In front of the Gothic window stood 
the old citizen, wrapped in a wide gown, his 
gray periwig exchanged for a nightcap, which 
was thrust back from his forehead, and his silk 
stockings hanging about his legs. He sup- 
ported himself on his polished cane in a fit of 
convulsive merriment, which manifested itself 
on his solemn old features like a funny inscrip- 
tion on a tombstone. Then Robin seemed to 
hear the voices of the barbers, of the guests of 
the inn, and of all who had made sport of him 
that night. The contagion was spreading among 
the multitude, when all at once it seized upon 
Robin, and he sent forth a shout of laughter 
that echoed through the street, — every man 
shook his sides, every man emptied his lungs, 
but Robin's shout was the loudest there. The 
cloud-spirits peeped from their silvery islands, 
as the congregated mirth went roaring up the 
324 


MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX 

sky! The Man in the Moon heard the far 
bellow. “ Oho,” quoth he, “ the old earth is 
frolicsome to-night ! ” 

When there was a momentary calm in that 
tempestuous sea of sound, the leader gave the 
sign, the procession resumed its march. On 
they went, like fiends that throng in mockery 
around some dead potentate, mighty no more, 
but majestic still in his agony. On they went, 
in counterfeited pomp, in senseless uproar, in 
frenzied merriment, trampling all on an old 
man's heart. On swept the tumult, and left a 
silent street behind. 

“ Well, Robin, are you dreaming ? ” inquired 
the gentleman, laying his hand on the youth's 
shoulder. 

Robin started, and withdrew his arm from the 
stone post to which he had instinctively clung, 
as the living stream rolled by him. His cheek 
was somewhat pale, and his eye not quite as 
lively as in the earlier part of the evening. 

“ Will you be kind enough to show me the 
way to the ferry ? ” said he, after a moment's 
pause. 

“You have, then, adopted a new subject of 
inquiry ? " observed his companion with a smile. 

“ Why, yes, sir,” replied Robin rather dryly. 
“ Thanks to you, and to my other friends, I 
have at last met my kinsman, and he will scarce 
3 2 5 


THE SNOW-IMAGE 


desire to see my face again. I begin to grow 
weary of a town life, sir. Will you show me 
the way to the ferry ? ” 

“ No, my good friend Robin, — not to-night, 
at least,” said the gentleman. “ Some few days 
hence, if you wish it, I will speed you on your 
journey. Or, if you prefer to remain with us, 
perhaps, as you are a shrewd youth, you may 
rise in the world without the help of your kins- 
man, Major Molineux.” 


326 












•*, *♦ ^ «.♦* .’aVa**. % ^ *€m 

vv 



<y *+ °* 

<V *”V.' .6* O '..I 

A*’ .c“4' v *+ ,0* °o 

O' • O Qf 





\0 -A 



< V*-~ •’ *°‘ | 

V ,'^VmL' «* a? -"* 

% ^ At- <? * 

V V w " wT* s 

^ * V tf .Vv/ v ^ 

& x W& /% : -fife /V-ill- / 

# • ' 1 • < v ■ 

-* <y • -- > V .v! 

^ ^ c<r ^ ^ 

rS ^ o ° <£ 'V ° \ 

TV** <0^ O 'a.** A, * ^ ^ .0* ^> J 





°o 


^oV 1 


*°i 


....>o^V^-.X' ,, ’‘^^-^X*-- , y *.j 

• X/ .m* %•/ .*£Sfc x/ -, 

„ /\W A • 

< k > *'T. «' <G* ^ 'o..- A <v 

& ** 





At. 0 1 


„4 <1 


^ '•»•' aV ’«* -A 

v «a aP *y> -> v % >* 

%<♦♦ « \/ : #fc W * 

4^, ^ “-ivvv 4? %■ '.pjliv ^ 

. 0 * - 1 "- ° ,4 s ,»>•. \ o* • l "* As 

V c° ^ A .%kStoyv A, c° ,'rffe.’. J . l 

• • Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 




O. J 4.0 * 7 *. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 




Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

* 


p " ’ A PreservationTechnologies 


aA. -« 



A WORLO LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

«£* <X V * HI Thomson Park Drive 

sr* ' ° y Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 

C, vT * l (724) 779-2111 

^ _ . _ 


E^- 0 o ^ jr - 0 



< * ^ 

0 “* - 

V * * - • 

v* *<*«?* 

- ff -*#» W 

4 ^ t* vi 3 IGr/ ^ 


p * Ap ' J <C* ° 0 1 

_ ^ -V ^V, ^ * 

%A V ♦ « s .0 O ■'o I I i * -A ~~ * 

% +p ,0 V C> a^ V c °"«* <s> , 

u» v <j. JKi ?//??> * ^ j v • c-C^^Vv * x /* v< 

< *‘o < * .£&%&* ’b i? . •** •'u.Qt 



A < 2 * 



4- 0v *. 



* 5 °^ 




0 » * * > v 

" •■ te, A* - 

• V^VP o„ 
;* <& ^ °. 1 
. . S s 0 V O 


O N o 



O' <b * X^&W//A ~ Vx 

*V °W¥ ; *>*. ^ 

r ** %W ** • 

O 'o , i <* <\ ^ 

t / » ^ A> „ * „ V* A v 




^ A' - ' <£>■ ~ o , <\ • 

‘ ^ ***** *> 

»• aV^, 

. ° • * - <\ 
l( ,. ^o aV 


° ^rv 

* -op ^ 

-v- * H 

<A-''** S 

^ 0 0 " ° * <*> CT - »■ • * 

<T ,V$$8W\p V c ♦* 


«fv « 
o 


1 y «/» 



A ^ ,o f . • * 


% *'’* y ‘*Ti’ 

^ v' .vLA' % \ . 

*. : M*Sk \ 



\r ° . 

'7^ s' 'o.L* A. 

° " 0 -» ^ ^ . L ' * ^ , o •* o 



V %v ( 5 . . , % '*•*'•• 

; X<? ;*js* : 

® ^ ° * aV*\ 

v ,-c>. .^M/ f?S \Vr ■» jV w* 


* ^ 





